THE YOUNG POET
He loved and sang and sinned
With roses on his brow.
Alas for all his pride!
His eyes are eaten now,
He's lighter than the wind.
The veil of Love is riven,
The Sin by Death forgiven,
The Singer glorified.
Autumn has killed the rose:
O mock him not with flowers:
Set up no shapely stone!
Take him to pass the hours
Where the grey nettle grows.
With scant and scarce adorning
Let him who praised the morning
Lie here, alone, unknown!
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