P O S T

B U R N I N G D O W N T H E H O U S E

M A S T E R T H E S I S
Words don't come easy

And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;

And form so soft, and charms so rare,

Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,

And o'er the spot the crowd may tread

In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.