Along the avenue of cypresses, All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices Of linen, go the chanting choristers, The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . . .
When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me
Bid me despair, and I'll despair,Under that cypress tree;Or bid me die, and I will dareE'en Death, to die for thee.
Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypres let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
It's only in winter that the pine and cypress are known to be evergreens.
Only after Winter comes do we know that the pine and the cypress are the last to fade.
The cypresses are always occupying my thoughts.