Upon the hilltop, near the stone,
Your scent is here like some perfume.
I sigh, ah, but I sigh alone,
Here at your tomb.
The night is here now scarce begun,
And I am in this web of gloom,
What had been two is now but one.
The shadows loom.
Off to the right these silent hills
A lonely aspect all assume,
The moonlight my poor heart so stills,
And would entomb.
The breeze has swept the leaves away,
Pale orchids by your grave still bloom,
As on my face the distant spray
Of ocean spume.
The sea rolls on, the scent of thyme
Comes to me as my griefs resume,
It seems there is no end to Time,
But only doom…