Classic Poem

Silent garden, bloom apace,
Deck thyself with verdure young:
Be the red earth's latest trace
Hid with roses, thickly sprung.

Haste to close yon darksome grave,
Thus to view it grieves my heart,
Though, in sooth, it doth not crave
Aught wherein my love hath part.

Stay, this grave myself will share,
Now shall earth receive her due;
Nay, not yet—in upper air
Many a task I've yet to do.