35 The Widow’s Song

I BURN no incense, hang no wreath,

On 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 offered 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

Did’st love in living years,

Sits desolate beside it now,

And falls these heavy tears.