LET dew the flowers fill; br No need of fell despair, br Though to the grave you bear br One still of soul-but now too still, br One fair-but now too fair. br For, beneath your feet, the mound, br And the waves, that play around, br Have meaning in their grassy, and their watery, smiles; br And, with a thousand sunny wiles, br Each says, as he reproves, br Death's arrow oft is Love's.