Poetry / Isabella, or the Pot of Basil - XXXVIII

PAUSED- done- wpm- acc

Isabella, or the Pot of Basil - XXXVIII

Saying moreover, "Isabel, my sweet

Red whortleberries droop above my head,

And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet;

Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed

Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheepfold bleat

Comes from beyond the river to my bed:

Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom,

And it shall comfort me within the tomb.