To Faustine

Something, it may be, you and I
In some deserted yard will lie
Where Memory fades away;
Caring no more for Love his dreams,
Busy with new and alien themes,
The saints and sages say.

But let our graves be side by side,
So idlers may at evening tide
Pause there a moment’s space:
“Ah, they were lovers who lie here;
Else why these low graves laid so near,
In this forgotten place?”