As over the cold, sepulchral stone
Some name arrests the passer-by,
Thus when thou viewest this page alone
May mine attract thy pensive eye.
And when these lines by thee are read
Perchance in some succeeding year,
Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried here!
17. It is this song of love for one's kind which makes Burns, Heine, and
Goethe pre-eminently the singers of the human heart when it finds itself
linked to one other heart. And it is this strain which gives
everlasting life to the following breath of Pushkin's muse: