 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere
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AN EPITAPH WITHOUT A NAME.
I had a Name. A wreath of woven air,
A wreath of Letters blended, none knew why,
Floated, a vocal phantom, here and there,
For one brief season, like the dragon-fly
That flecks the noontide beam,
Flickering o'er downward, forest-darkened stream.
What word those Letters shaped I tell you not:
Wherefore should such this maiden marble blot?
Faint echo, last and least, of foolish Fame,
I am a Soul; nor care to have a Name.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere
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