The Poets and Poetry of America/The Widow's Song

I burn no incense, hang no wreath O'er this, thine early tomb: Such cannot cheer the place of death, But only mock its gloom. Here odorous smoke and breathing flower No grateful influence shed; They lose their perfume and their power, When offer'd to the dead.

And if, as is the Afghaun's creed, The spirit may return, A disembodied sense, to feed On fragrance, near its urn— It is enough, that she, whom thou Didst love in living years, Sits desolate beside it now, And falls these heavy tears.