Our love was born amid the purple heather,
When winds were still, and vesper lights were red;
For one bright year we cherished it together;
Now, it lies cold and dead.
Dead; and across the brown hill-ridges, wailing,
Comes the wild autumn in her swift return.
With sullen tears, and misty garments trailing
Over the faded fern.
Ah, there may come a time — God send it quickly —
When love's lone grave shall wear a fragrant wreath
Of blooms, and velvet mosses, piling thickly
Upon the dust beneath.
And we, across the heather slow returning,
May seek, perchance, this sacred mound of ours;
Seek it, unvexed by any foolish yearning,
And find it lost in flowers.