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Oh, never shall a careless tread Soil with its step thy sacred bed! Never shall leaf or blossom bloom With vainest mockery o'er thy tomb!

And forth I went, and raised a shrine Of the dried branches of the pine,— I laid her there, and o'er her flung The wild flowers that around her sprung; I tore them up, and root and all, I bade them wait her funeral, With a strange joy that each fair thing Should, like herself, be withering. I lit the pyre,—the evening skies Rain'd tears upon the sacrifice; How did its wild and awful light Struggle with the fierce winds of night;