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Behind that mountain—in yon aisle,
A choir of priests outpour
Hymns—and five paces from the church,
The green-sod wraps her o'er.
Then let me mourn, and let me weep—
And to her grave I’ll go—
And there eternal watches keep,
Communing with my woe.
And then my eye shall shed- dark tears,
Till they are clos’d in death,
And time shall hang upon my bier[1]
That fatal rosemary-wreath.- ↑ přjkrow—the black cloth which covet: the bier.
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