I dug, beneath the cypress shade,
What well might seem an elfin’s grave;
And every pledge in earth I laid,
That erst thy false affection gave.
I pressed them down the sod beneath;
I place one mossy stone above;
And twined the rose’s fading wreath
Around the sepulcher of love.
Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead.
Ere yet the evening sun was set:
But years shall see the cypress spread,
Immutable as my regret.