Here in a little cave,
the prettiest nook of this most grassy vale,
all amid lilies pale,
that turn
their heads into my little vault and mourn —
Stranger! I have made my grave.
I am not all forgot:
a small hoarse stream murmurs close by my pillow,
and o'er me a green willow
doth weep,
still questioning the air — " Why doth she sleep,
the girl, in this cold spot? "


Even the very winds
come to my cave and sigh: they often bring
rose-leaves upon their wing
to strew
over my earth; and leaves of violet blue, —
in sooth, leaves of all kinds!


Fresh is my mossy bed:
the frequent pity of the rock falls here,
a sweet cold, silent tear!
I've heard,
sometimes, a wild and melancholy bird
Warble at my grave-head.
Read this small tablet o'er,
that holds mine epitaph on its cheek of pearl:
" Here lies a simple girl,
who died,
like a pale flower nipt in its sweet spring-tide,
ere it had bloomed. " — No more!