University of Virginia Library

THE POET'S GRAVE.

FIRST VERSION.

“He hath sung sweetly,” so the Lady said,
Sweet Poesy, who stood above his grave
With tears and claspèd sorrowing hands that gave
A gentle tribute to her hero dead—
“He hath sung sweetly, let the bays be shed
About the brows of one more prophet brave,
He hath sung sweetly, let a rose-wreath wave
Around the eager brain that beauty fed;
He hath sung sweetly,” and she bent, the Queen,
To press upon his lips a farewell kiss,
But started back—for—what a thing is this!
The poet's eyes to open slow are seen,
For—Beauty once attained is life I ween,
And death it is the beautiful to miss.