VII

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VII

Time was, the breath of early dawn

Would agitate a mystic wreath

Hung on a pine branch earthward drawn

Above the humble urn of death.

Time was, two maidens from their home

At eventide would hither come,

And, by the light the moonbeams gave,

Lament, embrace upon that grave.

But now⁠—none heeds the monument

Of woe: effaced the pathway now:

There is no wreath upon the bough:

Alone beside it, gray and bent,

As formerly the shepherd sits

And his poor basten sandal knits.