Far from the churchyard dig his grave, On some green mound beside the wave; To westward, sea and sky alone, And sunsets. Put a mossy stone, With mortal name and date, a harp...
Here the white-ray'd anemone is born, Wood-sorrel, and the varnish'd buttercup; And primrose in its purfled green swathed up, Pallid and sweet round every budding thorn,...
With grief and mourning I sit to spin; My Love passed by, and he didn't come in; He passes by me, both day and night, And carries off my poor heart's delight.