Misfortune's frowned at me with great disdain
and wrought the winter's frost for further quest;
to coat unseen - the stone on love's remain,
hence I in mind exhume what grief depressed.

Her grave's unjust to meet what beauty's owed,
no roman style exalts her fairest youth
if scholars old had glimpsed what grace she showed;
her tombstone would inscribe a closer truth.

That somber mason, near the date she passed
had failed to scribe my death of love to be;
for too below the ice, in urn - like cast
still bleeds of mourn, the lover's pith of me.

Upon reflection, snow has troubled none
I need no stone, when I'm already one.