... the mystery Of buried sorrow. Let them lie —the fragrant things, All their souls thus giving : Let no breeze's ambient wings, And no useless water-springs, Mock them into living. They have lived—they live no more ; Nothing can requite them For the gentle life they bore, Which up-yield in full store did so delight them. Yes, I ween, flower-corses fair ! 'Twas a joyful yielding Like some soul ...