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For the Minerva

Breath not a sigh for me
	When I am gone;
But let my grave place be
	Dreary and lone:
Let the rude tempest rave
A requiem o’er my grave,
	But sing thou none!
But place a wild rose near
	My narrow bed;
(Emblem of one too dear!—
	Still dear though dead!)
Cherish its tender root,
Let no rude stranger’s foot
	Bow down its head.
Yes, ‘twas a lovely flower
	My bosom wore;
Vast was its beauty’s power –
	Alas! ‘tis o’er.
Death, in a gloomy hour,
Tore it from Love’s own bower,
	To bloom no more
Winter will blight the rose
	Thou plant’st for me;
Spring wile new life disclose—
	‘Twill flourish free;
And my heart’s flower shall bloom
Brightly, beyond the tomb,