Myrtle and Cypress
Oh happy we! Our highest wish fulfilled!
The myrtle thine—the cypress I have willed.
Who wished the sun, will, ere the battle wane,
Be glad of moon and stars to ease his pain.
The myrtle take, the cypress leave for me—
Whose fault it is, in graveyards it grows free.
Perhaps its branches rustling in the air,
Peace to thy soul will bring, and dreams most fair.
Then will that grave of mine with roses bloom,
Be thou but happy, happy in thy doom.
The myrtle thine—the cypress I have willed.
Who wished the sun, will, ere the battle wane,
Be glad of moon and stars to ease his pain.
The myrtle take, the cypress leave for me—
Whose fault it is, in graveyards it grows free.
Perhaps its branches rustling in the air,
Peace to thy soul will bring, and dreams most fair.
Then will that grave of mine with roses bloom,
Be thou but happy, happy in thy doom.
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