472. Elegy

George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788—1824)

  O SNATCH’D away in beauty’s bloom!

  On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;

  But on thy turf shall roses rear

  Their leaves, the earliest of the year,

  And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

  And oft by yon blue gushing stream

  Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,

  And feed deep thought with many a dream,

  And lingering pause and lightly tread;

  Fond wretch! as if her step disturb’d the dead.

  Away! we know that tears are vain,

  That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:

  Will this unteach us to complain?

  Or make one mourner weep the less?

  And thou, who tell’st me to forget,

  Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.