 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
LOVE'S EPITAPH.
BRING wreaths and crown the golden hours!Pile up the scented snows of Spring!
If Love be dead of sorrow's sting,
Shall we make dark this day of ours,
This day of scents and silver showers
And lilts of linnets on the wing?
Sing out and let the shadow ring
And all the grave run o'er with flowers!
If Love, you say, indeed be dead,
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Spring is as sweet as aye and red
And sweet as ever is the rose;
He was so fickle, Love! Who knows?
He might arise and mock our grief.
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |