OH snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves the earliest of the year
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: 5
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head
And feed deep thought with many a dream
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead! 10
Away! we know that tears are vain
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou who tell'st me to forget 15
Thy looks are wan thine eyes are wet.
George (Lord) Byron
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