Where the rose is fresh and blooming—where the vine and myrtle spring—
Where the turtle-dove is cooing—where the gay cicalas sing—
Whose may be the grave surrounded with such store of comely grace,
Like a God-created garden? 'Tis Anacreon's resting-place.
Spring and summer and the autumn poured their gifts around the bard,
And, ere winter came to chill him, sound he slept beneath the sward.