“A month went by; the wigwam-smoke
  No more from that cold hearth ascended,
Where the old chief no longer woke
  To woes that with his life were ended:
A month, and that deserted isle
  Was left alone to me and her!
The summer had begun to smile,
  The winds of June the leaves to stir;
And flowers that budded late the while,
  To bloom above her sepulchre;
 Meek, pallid things, grave-nursed below,
 That feebly there as yet would grow,
 Brighter in coming years to blow—
And where was he whose fell despair
The Flower of Love laid bleeding there?