A Lament

Let gleeful muses sing their roundelays!
So might my muse have sung;
But in the jocund days
When she was young,
She chanced upon a grave
New-made, and since, there strays
A mournful cadence through her lightest stave.

Her mask, however gay,
Still covers cheeks tear-wet;
She cannot, in her singing, smile
Until she can forget.