My heart is as a maiden
who contemplates an ashen urn
upon a carven pedestal
saying: "Stay, passerby..."
and here she sits as sorrowing
the leaves in autumn weep their sere
leaves no longer joyous
as in the days of youth and spring thoughts.
My heart is as a maiden
sighing afore an ashen urn
oblivious to all
else.
Sweet, sweet the scene
ever as a dream.