The Widow's Song

I burn no incense, hang no wreath
O'er 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 offer'd 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
Didst love in living years,
Sits desolate beside it now,
And falls these heavy tears.