XXIX

My sweetheart, I dreamt Thou hadst died; I heard the death-knells pealing, And there were tears and wails and cries And signs of saddest feeling. For the low mound o’er Thy strange bed They picked a tombstone blindly, And a verse for Thine epitaph To write they asked me kindly. Oh, folks! Oh, folks! yourselves of stones, My heart take, with grief raving, And what I have not sung before Use for the stone’s engraving! You trusted not in my pure love And scorned my word and letter— Now if the stone will speak to you, You’ll understand it better.