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The myrtle

Language: English

Its clinging, mournful leaves, I said,
Seem made to thatch a grave;
Around the roots of cypress trees,
Too deep in gloom for sun or breeze,
It lives to mourn the dead!
But when I kissed her name, I saw,
Above the dear, dead maid,
A starry flower of tender blue,
A bit of heaven, shining through
The leaves upon her grave!


Authorship

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

Available translations (or transliterations, if applicable):

Added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.

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