Let Dew The Flowers Fill

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