Lo, here among the rest you sleep, <br />As though no difference were <br />'Twixt them and you, more wide, more deep, <br />Than such as fondness loves to keep <br />Round each lone sepulchre. <br /> <br />Yet they but human, you divine, <br />Warmed by that heavenly breath, <br />Which, when ephemeral lights decline, <br />Like lamp before nocturnal shrine, <br />Still burneth after death. <br /> <br />Yes, here in Tuscan soil you lie, <br />With Tuscan turf above; <br />And, lifting silent spires on high, <br />The cypresses remind the sky <br />Of the city of your love. <br /> <br />And you did grow so like to her <br />Wherein you dwelt so long, <br />Your thoughts, like her May roses, were <br />Untrained, unchecked, but how astir, <br />And oh how sweet, with song! <br /> <br />The Poet of Olympian mien <br />His frenzy doth control, <br />And, gazing on the dread Unseen, <br />Keep mind majestic, will serene, <br />And adamantine soul. <br /> <br />He, save to Wisdom sternly true, <br />Is but the sport of Fate <br />And gladiatorial pain. But you! <br />A poet, and a woman too! <br />The burden was too great. <br /> <br />And so you laid it down, and here, <br />Oblivious of life's load, <br />Quiet you sleep through all the year, <br />Young Spring, staid Summer, Autumn sere, <br />And Winter's icy goad. <br /> <br />The swallows, freshly on the wing, <br />In April's sun rejoice; <br />The nightingales unceasing sing; <br />Yes, Spring brings back the birds of Spring, <br />But not, alas! your voice. <br /> <br />So round your sleep I soft let fall <br />Frail emblems of regret; <br />The lowly wind-flower, tulip tall, <br />The iris mantling wayside wall, <br />And weeping violet. <br /> <br />My votive flowers to-day will blow, <br />To-morrow be decayed; <br />But, though long sunk from sight, I know, <br />The glory of your afterglow <br />Will never wholly fade.<br /><br />Alfred Austin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-her-grave/
