Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803-1849)
Let dew the flowers fill;
No need of fell despair,
Though to the grave you bear
One still of soul - but now too still,
One fair - but now too fair.
For, beneath your feet, the mound,
And the waves, that play around,
Have meaning in their grassy, and their watery,
And, with a thousand sunny wiles,
Each says, as he reproves,
Death's arrow oft is Love's.