At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay.

The moan of doves in immemorial elms,

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,

Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,

Like summer tempest came her tears.

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;

Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Home they brought her warrior dead.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Dear as remembered kisses after death.