They buried thee in roses,
of a soft and lilting hue,
of petals soft and trimmings long,
and virtue pure and true.

Thy faces bore the markings
of a girl buried in rock,
the 'witching cause of scorching pasts
and thoughts that led to shock.

Far be it from the minds of old
to push the past down yon,
to wish away the learnèd pulse
that rules your life begone.

So treasurèd be love itself,
the will to live be strong,
'tis hard enough to kiss the weeds
when they've torn up your song.