Autumn far off in memory,
That saw the crisping myrtles fade ! . . .
Eons agone, my tomb was made
Beside the moon-constrainèd sea.

Ah, wonderful its portals were !
With carven doors of chrysolite
And walls of somber syenite
They wrought mine olden sepulcher.

About the griffin-guarded plinth,
White blossoms crowned the scarlet vine,
And burning orchids opaline
Illumed the palm and terebinth.

On friezes of mine ancient fame
The cypress wrought its writhen shade,
And through the boughs the ocean made
Moresques of blue and fretted flame.

Poet or prince, I may not know
My perished name, nor bring to mind
Years that are one with dust and wind,
Nor songless love and tongueless woe—

Only the tomb they made for me,
With carven doors of chrysolite
And walls of somber syenite
Beside the moon-constrainèd sea.