The poem
THIS little vault, this narrow room, Of Love and Beauty is the tomb; The dawning beam, that 'gan to clear Our clouded sky, lies darken'd here, For ever set to us: by Death Sent to enflame the World Beneath. 'Twas but a bud, yet did contain More sweetness than shall spring again; A budding Star, that might have grown Into a Sun when it had blown. This hopeful Beauty did create New life in Love's declining state; But now his empire ends, and we From fire and wounding darts are free; His brand, his bow, let no man fear: The flames, the arrows, all lie here.