| I dreamed that one had died in a strange place |
| Near no accustomed hand; |
| And they had nailed the boards above her face, |
| The peasants of that land, |
| Wondering to lay her in that solitude, |
| And raised above her mound |
| A cross they had made out of two bits of wood, |
| And planted cypress round; |
| And left her to the indifferent stars above |
| Until I carved these words: |
| She was more beautiful than thy first love, |
| But now lies under boards. |