 | The poems posthumous and collected of Thomas Lovell Beddoes |  |
EPITAPH.
The form's divinity, the heart's best grace,Where are they? Have they their immortal throne
Upon thy maiden's thought, and peerless face,
Thou cold-eyed reader? Yet, beneath this stone
Dust lies, weeds grow: and this is the remain
Of one best union of that deathless twain.
| The poems posthumous and collected of Thomas Lovell Beddoes | |