LET dew the flowers fill;
No need of fell despair,
Though to the grave you bear
One still of soul-but now too still,
One fair-but now too fair.
For, beneath your feet, the mound,
And the waves, that play around,
Have meaning in their grassy, and their watery, smiles;
And, with a thousand sunny wiles,
Each says, as he reproves,
Death's arrow oft is Love's.
More verses by Thomas Lovell Beddoes
- Dream-Pedlary (Excerpt)
- If Thou Wilt Ease Thine Heart
- The Rosy Hour
- The Swallow Leaves Her Nest
- Song From Torrismond