Cupid's Funeral

BY his side, whose days are past,
   Lay bow and quiver!
And his eyes that stare aghast
   Close, with a shiver.
God nor man from Death, at last,
   Love may deliver.
Though—of old—we vowed, my dear,
   Death should not take him;
Mourn not thou that we must here
   Coldly forsake him;
Shed above his grave no tear—
   Tears will not wake him.

Cupid lieth cold and dead—
   Ended his flying,
Pale his lips, once rosy-red,
   Swift was his dying.
Place a stone above his head,
   Turn away, sighing.