Oh, cedars, guard him well, ye sentinels, for near ye Lies one my heart would weep for, dared it weep. Make winded music through your boughs, my love shall hear ye, Where in his narrow grave he lies asleep. Tell him in murmurs low what words have never told him, How all my heart was his, in long past days. How like a presence, dear, unseen, I ever hold him, As after sunset, earth, her lord's warm rays. |