?NEATH the spiring of spruces Above the blue sea, Lo, a field of white crosses, A garden of grief! ?And a riot of roses, Of red and white roses, Rich Death! all in blossom, Fair Loss! all in leaf. Aye, their warm cherub-cheeks To cold marble they press; With sweet summer-kisses Dead names they caress; Yon tomb, see, all garlands, All roses this cross! ?So breathe, my lamenting! So bloom, O my loss!