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

Wondering to lay her in that solitude,

And raised above her mound

A cross they had made out of two bits of wood,And planted cypress round;

And left her to the indifferent stars above

Until I carved these words:

She was more beautiful than thy first love But now lies under boards. QYXdqgDXF/hRrJbRBi56NZ4cCDQRW3K39FrSrZDUdW+vBQtEyVxr1PxWWv7E0TxE