Votive Song

I burn no incense, hang no wreath, On this thine early tomb: Such can not cheer the place of death, But only mock its gloom. Here odorous smoke and breathing flower No grateful influence shed; They lose their perfume and their power, When offered to the dead.

And if, as is the Afghaun's creed, The spirit may return, A disembodied sense to feed On fragrance, near its urn,-- It is enough that she, whom thou Didst love in living years, Sits desolate beside it now, And fall these heavy tears.

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