I bore dead Love unto his grave,
Beneath a willow, in winter’s rain,
Where he might feel the branches wave,
And hear me, if he woke again.
One withered rose-tree on his tomb
I planted, so that, by-and-by,
If he should wake, the rose might bloom,
And I should know, and hear him cry.
I decked his breast with rosemary,
Laid on his lips one violet,