BLUE, wistful eyes, and hair
Brown-golden, and lips of rose?
And she is dead? Why, there
Are others, I suppose,
As fair: 't is a common thing
(Why should you grieve for the past?)
To sleep . . . i' the dust, at last!
But . . . she was mine, you see.
Under the moon alone
I dream of a grave (ah, me!)
With its carven cross of stone . . .
There are others, you say, as sweet?
But I miss the eyes that sleep
Where the low dark woodbines creep.
And the dawn's wet wreath of pearl,