Deep in my heart, as in the hollow stone

And silence of some olden sepulchre,

Thy silver beauty lies, and shall not stir—

Forgotten, incorruptible, alone:

Though altars darken, and a wind be blown

From starless seas on beacon-fires that were—

Within thy tomb, with oils of balm and myrrh,

Forever burn the onyx lamps unknown.

And though the bleak, Novembral gardens yield

Rose-dust and ivy-leaf, nor any flow’r

Be found through vermeil forest or wan field—

Still, still the asphodel and lotos lie

Around thy bed, and hour by silent hour,

Exhale immortal fragrance like a sigh.