Page:Cheskian Anthology.pdf/117

 to battle—met

A foe—and now I die:

To her I worshipped—yet

I turn my dying eye.

upon my tomb,

My friends are far away:

And ere they know my doom,

The worm will seize its prey.

grave a grave for me,

Within yon grassy wood,

For there my love shall be,

In evening's solitude.

that angel hie

With gentlest greetings there

I ask no tear—no sigh—

But one—one hallowed prayer.