And will that image ever quit thy sight?
“No! deathless in thy faithful breast,
There shall my memory keep
Its own bright altar-place of rest,
While o’er my grave the cypress branches weep.
“Oh, the glad light!—the light is fair,
The soft breeze warm and free;
And rich notes fill the scented air,
And all are gifts—my love’s last gifts to thee!
“Take me to thy warm heart once more!