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shouldst be looked on when the starlight falls Through the blue stillness of the summer air; Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls, It hath too fitful and too wild a glare;— And thou—thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems To ask light steps which will not break its dreams.

Flowers are upon thy brow, for so the dead Were crowned of old, with pale spring-flowers like these; Sleep on, thine eye hath sunk, yet softly shed, As from the wing of some faint southern breeze; And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom Which of the grove seems breathing—not the tomb.