I fain would walk, to the not dreadful tomb.
And now, adieu, sweet Mary! I must cease
My strain; but, as a wind-strain sleeps
Upon a bed of roses; so the echo
Of this my strain, will find its rest with thee.
WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
As stainless thought my hand should write,
Upon this page of spotless white;
Nor would I that thy falling tear