I lay this votive wreath of mine,
Though many an offering there may shine,
With brighter blossoms gleaming.
For, even now, though wild and young,
By cunning hands thy harp is strung,
And lips, with bees in clusters hung,
Thy fame are fast redeeming.
But late thy heart was pierced with pain,
Still o’er thee flows of raven grain
A vestment dun; thine eyelids rain