At Her Grave

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