A Buried Love

Our love was born amid the purple heather, When winds were still, and vesper lights were red; For one bright year we cherished it together; Now, it lies cold and dead.

Dead; and across the brown hill-ridges, wailing, Comes the wild autumn in her swift return. With sullen tears, and misty garments trailing Over the faded fern.

Ah, there may come a time — God send it quickly — When love's lone grave shall wear a fragrant wreath Of blooms, and velvet mosses, piling thickly Upon the dust beneath.

And we, across the heather slow returning, May seek, perchance, this sacred mound of ours; Seek it, unvexed by any foolish yearning, And find it lost in flowers.