A little stone o'ercrept with moss,
And red wild roses flaunting by,
A wistful breeze that seems to sigh
Where the tall grasses toss.
To sigh for one who went away,
Thus it is writ upon the stone —
Nothing can ever make atone
And tears shall fall for aye.
Oh, irony of human vow,
Even the stone is crumbling too,
And tears,— none save the evening dew,
For who remembers now?