The Graves of the Departed loved.
With fairest flowers
I’ll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack
The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose;
Nor the azured harebell, like thy veins;
No, nor the leaf of eglantine,
Which, not to slander it, outsweeten’d
Not thy breath.
“These to renew with more than annual care,
That wakeful love with pensive step will go;
The hand that lifts the dibble shakes with fear,
Lest haply it disturb the friend below.
Vain fear! yet who that boasts a heart to feel,
An eye to pity, would that fear reprove?
They only who are cursed with breasts of steel
Can mock the foibles of surviving love.”