Better at last to find a place for lying,
Only dead.
Silence were best, with songs and sighing over;
Now be the music mute;
Now let the dead, red leaves of autumn cover
A vain lute.
Silence is best: for ever and for ever,
We will go down and sleep,
Somewhere beyond her ken, where she need never
Come to weep.
Let be at last: colder she grows and colder;
Sleep and the night were best;
Lying at last where we cannot behold her,
We may rest.
That hardly sway before a breezeAs soft as summer: summer’s lossSeems little, dear! on days like these.Let misty autumn be our part!The twilight of the year is sweet:Where shadow and the darkness meetOur love, a twilight of the heartEludes a little time’s deceit.Are we not better and at homeIn dreamful Autumn, we who deemNo harvest…
Though all the summer skies be overcast,Haply I will go down to her, some day,And cast my rests of life before her feet,That she may have her will of me, being so sweetAnd none gainsay!So might she look on me with pitying eyes,And lay calm hands of healing on my head:‘_Because of thy long pains…
Because thy face is fair? And what if it had not been,The fairest face of all is the face I have not seen.Because the land is cold, and however I scheme and plot,I cannot find a ferry to the land where I am not.Because thy lips are red and thy breasts upbraid the snow?(There is…
The atoning oil is spread with sweetRenewal of lost innocence.The feet, that lately ran so fastTo meet desire, are soothly sealed;The eyes, that were so often castOn vanity, are touched and healed.From troublous sights and sounds set free;In such a twilight hour of breath,Shall one retrace his life, or see,Through shadows, the true face of…
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;Surely the kisses…
From the hours, rosy and gray,Hid her golden face away.Neobule, fain of sleep,Slept at last as she desired!Neobule! is it well,That you haunt the hollow lands,Where the poor, dead people stray,Ghostly, pitiful and gray,Plucking, with their spectral hands,Scentless blooms of asphodel?Neobule, tired to deathOf the flowers that I threwOn her flower-like, fair feet,Sighed for blossoms…
