Epitaph

Read with a gentle breast,
These murmurs of earth and sky
Then truly have you seen,
Beneth this sod a woman lie
With anguish moist and fever dew
Who in her life has done nothing wrong

Although it be a history
Here on her hours as a book
Bliss was it at the dawn of her life
Fresh as the morning star
But melancholy marked her for assault
The wild-witch thorns among
Huge and mighty forms who do not live
Such a parcel of rouges

Sad, the tales of this idel page
Make my thoughts acquainted with the grave
But not a blink of light was there.