?NEATH the spiring of spruces 
 Above the blue sea, 
Lo, a field of white crosses, 
 A garden of grief! 
?And a riot of roses, 
 Of red and white roses, 
Rich Death! all in blossom, 
 Fair Loss! all in leaf. 
Aye, their warm cherub-cheeks 
 To cold marble they press; 
With sweet summer-kisses 
 Dead names they caress; 
Yon tomb, see, all garlands, 
 All roses this cross! 
?So breathe, my lamenting! 
 So bloom, O my loss!