Classic Poem

Blue birds linger here awhile,
O'er this sacred, grassy pile;
Sing your sweetest songs to me,
'Tis the grave of Eulalie.

Streamlet, chanting at her feet,
Mournful music, sad and sweet,
Wake her not! she dreams of me—
'Neath the yew-tree, Eulalie!

Roses white around her tomb,
Gently wave and sweetly bloom!
Let your silent language be—
“We will bloom for Eulalie!”

Eulalie, but yesternight
Came a spirit, veiled in white,
I knew it could be none but thee,
Bride of Death, lost Eulalie!

Kiss me, Eulalie! once more,
Ere thou seek'st the starry shore;
Say thou know'st I sigh for thee,
Where thou liest, Eulalie!

Angels guard her with your wings!
Shield her from unholy things!
Bid her dream love-dreams of me,
'Neath the yew-tree, Eulalie!