His waxen hands, across his breast.
And make his grave where violets hide,
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet’s side,
And bluebirds in the misty spring
Of cloudless skies and summer sing.
Place near him, as ye lay him low,
His idle shafts, his loosened bow,
The silken fillet that around
His waggish eyes in sport he wound.
But we shall mourn him long, and miss