Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/151



Oh happy we! Our highest wish fulfilled! The myrtle thine—the cypress I have willed.

Who wished the sun, will ere the battle wane, Be glad of moon and stars, to ease his pain.

The myrtle take, the cypress leave for me— Whose fault is it, in graveyards it grows free.

Perhaps its branches singing in the air, Peace to thy soul will bring, and dreams most fair.

Then will that grave of mine with roses bloom. Be thou but happy, happy in thy doom.