The Myrtle

Its clinging, mournful leaves, I said,
Seem made to thatch a grave,
Around the roots of cypress-trees
Too deep in gloom for sun or breeze,
I yet must fancy, scarce dreamt by thee
It lives to mourn the dead.

But when I kissed her name, I saw,
Above the dear, dead maid,
A starry flower of tender blue,
A bit of heaven, shining through
The leaves upon her grave!