Votive Song

I burn no incense, hang no wreath,   On this thine early tomb: Such cannot cheer the place of death,   But only mock its gloom. Here odorous smoke and breathing flower   No grateful influence shed; They lose their perfume and their power,   When offered to the dead. And if, as is the Afghaun’s creed,   The spirit may return, A disembodied sense to feed,   On fragrance, near its urn,— It is enough that she, whom thou   Didst love in living years, Sits desolate beside it now,   And fall these heavy tears.