Let Dew The Flowers Fill

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.