To know when its fountain shall gush no more,
That those it so fondly hath yearn’d for will come
To plant the first wild flower of spring on my tomb;
Let me lie where those loved ones will weep over me,—
Oh, bury me not in the deep, deep sea.
“And there is another whose tears would be shed
For him who lay far in an ocean bed;
In hours that it pains me to think of now,
She hath twined those locks and hath kiss’d this brow.
In the hair she hath wreathed shall the sea serpent hiss,