But evermore that meek surprise,—
Oh, God! her gentle spirit tries
To deem me guiltless, Rosaline!
Above thy grave the robin sings,
And swarms of bright and happy things
Flit all about with sunlit wings,—
But I am cheerless, Rosaline!
The violets on the hillock toss,
The gravestone is o’ergrown with moss,
For Nature feels not any loss,—