Unhonour’d, and yet not desolate.
It was a dewy greensward bed,
Meet for the rest of a peasant head;
But Love—oh, lovelier than all beside!—
That lone place guarded and glorified.
For a gentle form stood watching there,
Young—but how sorrowfully fair!
Keeping the flowers of the holy spot,
That reckless feet might profane them not.
Clear, pale and clear, was the tender cheek,