THE BRIDE
... There is an unadorned and nameless grave Where southern birds are singing, ami the sky, Of brilliant azure deeper than the wave, Perfumed with orange, breathes its fragrancy Like incense o'er the hcart. But who was she So typified in death ? her fate thus sung By nature's minstrels, where the rivalry Of fresh-blown flowers upon the sod has sprung, To mark where sleeps in peace the innocently ...