Love, strong as Death, is dead. <br />Come, let us make his bed <br />Among the dying flowers: <br />A green turf at his head; <br />And a stone at his feet, <br />Whereon we may sit <br />In the quiet evening hours. <br /> <br />He was born in the Spring, <br />And died before the harvesting: <br />On the last warm summer day <br />He left us; he would not stay <br />For Autumn twilight cold and grey. <br />Sit we by his grave, and sing <br />He is gone away. <br /> <br />To few chords and sad and low <br />Sing we so: <br />Be our eyes fixed on the grass <br />Shadow-veiled as the years pass <br />While we think of all that was <br />In the long ago.<br /><br />Christina Georgina Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-end-4/
