I dreamed that one had died in a strange place
Near no accustomed hand;
And they had nailed the boards above her face,
The peasants of that land,
And, wondering, planted by her solitude
A cypress and a yew:
I came, and wrote upon a cross of wood,
Man had no more to do:
_She was more beautiful than thy first love,
This lady by the trees:_
And gazed upon the mournful stars above,
And heard the mournful breeze.
_W. B. Yeats._