That angry word, I may recall it never;
For o’er thy narrow grave, rank weeds have grown.
‘Remember, love, that it may be for ever.’
Ah, words prophetic! love, had I but known!
My locks are gray, my eyes are dim with weeping,
The face once loved by thee, no longer fair;
Beneath the daisies, thou art calmly sleeping:
There, a lone woman often kneels in prayer.
Ah, sweetheart mine, thou art so lowly lying,
Thou canst not hear the tearful voice above,