Requiescat Look for me not when gusts of winter blow, 1091 But when, in June, the pines are whispering low, That hour when birds leave song, and children pray, Sophie Jewett [1861-1909] REQUIESCAT TREAD lightly, she is near, Under the snow; Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair She that was young and fair Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast; I vex my heart alone, She is at rest. Peace, peace; she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet; All my life's buried here Heap earth upon it. Oscar Wilde [1856-1900] LYRIC Ah, dans ces mornes séjours Les jamais sont les toujours.-PAUL VERLAINE You would have understood me, had you waited; What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter: Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover I have met other women who were tender, Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited, Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter; Ernest Dowson (1867-1900] Good-Night 1093 ROMANCE My Love dwelt in a Northern land. The long wash of the waves was seen, And through the silver Northern night They fled like ghosts before the day! I know not if the forest green Still girdles round that castle gray; Andrew Lang [1844-1912] GOOD-NIGHT GOOD-NIGHT, dear friend! I say good-night to thee Across the moonbeams, tremulous and white, Bridging all space between us, it may be. Lean low, sweet friend; it is the last good-night. For, lying low upon my couch, and still, And so from sight of tears that fell like rain, I turned my white face to the window-pane, To say good-night to thee before I go. Good-night! good-night! I do not fear the end, The conflict with the billows dark and high; And yet, if I could touch thy hand, my friend, I think it would be easier to die; If I could feel through all the quiet waves Of my deep hair thy tender breath a-thrill, And pain of parting I should hear thy call, It may not be. Good-night, dear friend, good-night! And hear, through boughs with swollen buds a-white, Remember her whose young life held thy name REQUIESCAT BURY me deep when I am dead, Far from the woods where sweet birds sing; Lap me in sullen stone and lead, Lest my poor dust should feel the Spring. Never a flower be near me set, Nor starry cup nor slender stem, Lest my poor dust remember them. And you wherever you may fare— The King's Ballad 1095 THE FOUR WINDS WIND of the North, Wind of the Norland snows, Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars- And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films, Wind of the West, Wind of the few, far clouds, Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands- Wind of the East, Wind of the sunrise seas, Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains- But thou, sweet wind! Wind of the fragrant South, Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose!— And flowering forests come with dewy wings, And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss The low mound where she lies. Charles Henry Lüders [1858-1891] THE KING'S BALLAD GOOD my King, in your garden close, Why so sad when the maiden rose Love at your feet is spilling? |