Scatter the violets o’er that wan brow,
And raise that cold form from its last life pillow;
Bear it to where those azure violets grow,
Then leave it to its rest beneath the willow.
And is this all?—Ah! no—the loved, the dead,
Have yet another tomb, the heart’s enshrining;
There are the inward tears perpetual shed,
Grief with all other memories entwining.
Weep for the mourner—not for her who knows
Life’s latest—aye, and also sweetest slumber;
Peace is around it—only weep for those
Whom mortal cares and mortal anguish cumber.
It is a desperate grief—an utter gloom—
To which all after life brings no removing,
To know that deep within the unpitying tomb
Lies all the heart had in this world for loving.
