White your petals wilt on iron stone,
That sleeps beneath their velvet sigh.
No more breath, no more can atone,
The dead can only be alone,
And weep within their dirted lie.
Too good, too kind, were you for I,
The lackwit who graved grave goodbye.
And now you be absconded hence
With all my soul, all my sense; thence
I duel not death, consent to die,
Within the earth, my dirted lie.