I’ll Be Your Epitaph!

Over your dear, dead heart I’ll lift,
As lightly as a bough,
Saying, “Here lies the false, high song,
Cruelly quiet now.”

I’ll say, “Here lies the lying sword,
Still dripping with my truth;
Here lies the lovely sheath I made,
Embroidered with my youth.”

I’ll sing, “Here lies, here lies, here lies!”
— Ah, rust in peace below! —
Passers will wonder at my words,
But your dark dust will know.