Elegy

by Lord Byron

  O 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:

  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!

  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,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.