And speak their noteless epitaph—the west
May blow too rudely in an hour of gloom,
But still it clings to thee, lone tenant of the tomb.
It clings to thee! ’Twas a most lovely creed,
That taught within a flower might dwell the soul
Of a lost friend—wronged one, does it not breed
Within thee quiet thoughts of a green knoll,
Bedecked with daisies, though no sculptured scroll
Be there to tell thy virtues? O! ’Tis sweet
To know that when the dews from heaven have stole