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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341340" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>At Her Grave</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lo, here among the rest you sleep,<br>As though no difference were<br>'Twixt them and you, more wide, more deep,<br>Than such as fondness loves to keep<br>Round each lone sepulchre.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet they but human, you divine,<br>Warmed by that heavenly breath,<br>Which, when ephemeral lights decline,<br>Like lamp before nocturnal shrine,<br>Still burneth after death.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes, here in Tuscan soil you lie,<br>With Tuscan turf above;<br>And, lifting silent spires on high,<br>The cypresses remind the sky<br>Of the city of your love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And you did grow so like to her<br>Wherein you dwelt so long,<br>Your thoughts, like her May roses, were<br>Untrained, unchecked, but how astir,<br>And oh how sweet, with song!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Poet of Olympian mien<br>His frenzy doth control,<br>And, gazing on the dread Unseen,<br>Keep mind majestic, will serene,<br>And adamantine soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He, save to Wisdom sternly true,<br>Is but the sport of Fate<br>And gladiatorial pain. But you!<br>A poet, and a woman too!<br>The burden was too great.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And so you laid it down, and here,<br>Oblivious of life's load,<br>Quiet you sleep through all the year,<br>Young Spring, staid Summer, Autumn sere,<br>And Winter's icy goad.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The swallows, freshly on the wing,<br>In April's sun rejoice;<br>The nightingales unceasing sing;<br>Yes, Spring brings back the birds of Spring,<br>But not, alas! your voice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So round your sleep I soft let fall<br>Frail emblems of regret;<br>The lowly wind-flower, tulip tall,<br>The iris mantling wayside wall,<br>And weeping violet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My votive flowers to-day will blow,<br>To-morrow be decayed;<br>But, though long sunk from sight, I know,<br>The glory of your afterglow<br>Will never wholly fade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Alfred+Austin">Alfred Austin</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341340" data-title="At Her Grave de Alfred Austin" data-description="Lo, here among the rest you sleep,
As though no difference were
'Twixt them and you, more wide, more deep,
Than such as fondness loves to keep
Round each lone sepulchre.

Yet they but human, you divine,
Warmed by that heavenly breath,
Which, when ..."></div>
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