Edward Young (1681–1765)

UNDER the violets, blue and sweet,

Where low the willow droops and weeps,

Where children tread with timid feet,

When twilight o’er the forest creeps,

She sleeps,—my little darling sleeps.

Breathe low and soft, O wind! breathe low

Where so much loveliness is laid!

Pour out thy heart in strains of woe,

O bird! that in the willows’ shade

Sing’st till the stars do pale and fade.

It may be that to other eyes,

As in the happy days of old,

The sun doth every morning rise

O’er mountain summits tipped with gold,

And set where sapphire seas are rolled;

But I am so hedged round with woe,

This glory I no more can see.

O weary heart, that throbbest so,

Thou hast but this one wish,—to be

A little dust beneath the tree.

I would thou hadst thy wish to-day,

And we were lying side by side

With her who took our life away

That heavy day whereon she died.

O Grave! I would thy gates were wide.