A little stone o'ercrept with moss,
And red wild roses flaunting by,
A wistful breeze that seems to sigh
Where the tall grasses toss.

To sigh for one who went away,
Thus it is writ upon the stone--
Nothing can ever make atone
And tears shall fall for aye.

Oh, irony of human vow,
Even the stone is crumbling too,
And tears,--none save the evening dew,
For who remembers now?