Where the sun scarce shines and flowers grow not,
Where the prayers of the church are never heard,
And the funeral bell swings not in air,
And the brooding silence is only stirred
By the cries of wild birds nesting there;
A low headstone, and a legend, green
With moss: “Leonora, just seventeen.”
Here she was laid long years ago,
A child in years, but a woman in woe.
Her sorrowful story is half forgot,