To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams.
Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead
Were crown’d of old, with pale spring-flowers like these:
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze:
And the pine-boughs o’ershadow thee with gloom,
Which of the grove seems breathing—not the tomb.
They fear’d not death, whose calm and gracious thought
Of the last hour hath settled thus in thee!
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,