Outside the white-walled Southern town,
Beyond the orchards flushed with bloom,
A place there was, remote and still,
Where prostrate shaft and shattered tomb--
The labour of forgotten lives--
Their story told of days long fled;
And for our trysting-place we chose
This quiet garden of the dead.
No mournful gloom oppressed the air,
The noontide came with tempered light,
And round the wild-flowers at our feet
The insects poised in dreamy flight.
Most meet it was that o'er the place
Where Death had sought his power to prove,
Above the ruin still should smile
The resurrection flower of LOVE.
