II Histories
A fresh wreath of crimson roses
Round my forehead twine will I;
I will wear them for a garland,
Wear them till the day I die.
I desire that in my coffin
May be room enough for three;
For my father, for my mother,
And my love to lie with me.
Afterwards above the coffin
We will let a flower grow;
In the morning we will plant it,
In the evening it will blow.
Wayfarers will pause demanding,
“Whose may be the flower there?”
“’Tis the flower of Rosetina,
She who died of love’s despair.”
Round of Girls in Venice.