Its youth’s vain worship on the dust, adoring
In lone devotedness!
One spring morn rose,
And found, within that tomb’s proud shadow laid—
Oh! not as midst the vineyards, to repose
From the fierce noon—a dark-hair’d peasant maid.
Who could reveal her story? That still face
Had once been fair; for on the clear arch’d brow
And the curved lip there linger’d yet such grace
As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low