Autumn far-off in memory,

That saw the crisping myrtles fade!****

Aeons agone, my tomb was made,

Beside the moon-constrainÈd sea.

Ah, wonderful its portals were!

With carven doors of chrysolite,

And walls of sombre syenite,

They wrought mine olden sepulchre!

About the griffin-guarded plinth,

White blossoms crowned the scarlet vine;

And burning orchids opaline

Illumed the palm and terebinth.

On friezes of mine ancient fame,

The cypress wrought its writhen shade;

And through the boughs the ocean made

Moresques of blue and fretted flame.

Poet or prince, I may not know

My perished name, nor bring to mind

Years that are one with dust and wind,

Nor songless love, and tongueless woe—:

Only the tomb they made for me,

With carven doors of chrysolite,

And walls of sombre syenite,

Beside the moon-constrainÈd sea.