 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
EPITAPH.
Ye village poor, whose pitying fingers strewThose kind, cold sprays of rosemary and rue;
And brush light snows from every tombstone dun,
While Evening's orange gleams in sequence run
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Though He below was never known to you:
And bid the Stranger spare the grave of one
Who said of him no evil, and thought none.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |