Cover us lightly with its murmuring surf,
Like a green sward of melancholy turf;
Thou mayest, if thou wilt, thou mayest rear
A cenotaph on this lone island here,
Of some rude mossy stone, below a tree,
And carve an olden rhyme for her and me
Upon its brow.”
He bends, and gazes yet
Before his ghastly bride! the anchoret
Sate by him, and hath press’d a cross of wood