Classic Poem

" Here lieth love. " Deep lettered on a stone
Are these few words, but never name and date
To say what heart would so commemorate
A dear dead love, or by what hand were strewn
The withered roses. Hither, thither blown,
A willow's branches quiver with a freight
Of melody that seems articulate;
But men who listen merely catch a moan —
" Here lieth love. "

Mine are the roses and the dead love there.
But silence! breathe no names; it were not meet
That she should know love perished from despair
Because her crimson lips were coldly sweet,
Because her face was passionlessly fair.
Nay, rather let her laugh when winds repeat —
" Here lieth love. "