To Clémence.
Thou sleepest at the foot of the green hill1
In the last row ;2
And o’er thy tomb a willow bends its head3
And weepeth low.4
No monument on thy belovèd dust5
Presses thee down.6
Ill-starred Clémence ! blighted in thy young dawn7
By Death’s cold frown.8
Thy name already through the snow and rain9
Cannot be read,10
Upon the black wood of the cross that guards11
Thy frozen bed.12
But faithful Friendship keeps thy memory,13
And comes with flowers14
Unto the spot unknown to all but her,15
And weeps for hours.16