And roses on his grave I spread,
For he was like—I know well whom;—
I bear her home in spring’s first bloom.
They tell me that earth lulls my love
To slumber, that grass grows above
Her faithful breast: they are deceived—
She sat upon the rock and grieved,
Pale was she as one painteth death,—
But that came of the moon’s faint light;
And cold her lips and cheek that night—