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Requiescat

Look for me not when gusts of winter blow,
When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and snow;
I would not come thy dear eyes to affray,
If spirits walk.

1091

But when, in June, the pines are whispering low,
And when their breath plays with thy bright hair so
As some one's fingers once were used to play-

That hour when birds leave song, and children pray,
Keep the old tryst, sweetheart, and thou shalt know
If spirits walk.

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
Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

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;
I could have loved you, dear! as well as he:
Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated
Always to disagree.

What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter:
Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid.
Though all the words we ever spake were bitter,
Shall I reproach you dead?

Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover
All the old anger, setting us apart:
Always, in all, in truth was I your lover;
Always, I held your heart.

I have met other women who were tender,
As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare.
Think you I turned to them, or made surrender,
I who had found you fair?

Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited,
I had fought death for you, better than he:
But from the very first, dear! we were fated
Always to disagree.

Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses
Love that in life was not to be our part:
On your low-lying mound between the roses,
Sadly I cast my heart..

I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter;
Death and the darkness give you unto me;
Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter,
Hardly can disagree.

Ernest Dowson (1867-1900]

Good-Night

1093

ROMANCE

My Love dwelt in a Northern land.
A gray tower in a forest green
Was hers, and far on either hand

The long wash of the waves was seen,
And leagues and leagues of yellow sand,
The woven forest boughs between!

And through the silver Northern night
The sunset slowly died away,
And herds of strange deer, lily-white,
Stole forth among the branches gray;
About the coming of the light,

They fled like ghosts before the day!

I know not if the forest green

Still girdles round that castle gray;
I know not if the boughs between
The white deer vanish ere the day;
Above my Love the grass is green,
My heart is colder than the clay!

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,
The fever flush evanished from my face,
I heard them whisper softly,
" "Tis His will;
Angels will give her happier resting-place!"

And so from sight of tears that fell like rain,
And sounds of sobbing smothered close and low,

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,
I could go downward to the place of graves
With eyes a-shine and pale lips smiling still;
Or it may be that, if through all the strife

And pain of parting I should hear thy call,
I would come singing back to sweet, sweet life,
And know no mystery of death at all.

It may not be. Good-night, dear friend, good-night!
And when you see the violets again,

And hear, through boughs with swollen buds a-white,
The gentle falling of the April rain,

Remember her whose young life held thy name
With all things holy, in its outward flight,
And turn sometimes from busy haunts of men
To hear again her low good-night! good-night!
Hester A. Benedict [18

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,
Anemone nor violet,

Lest my poor dust remember them.

And you wherever you may fare—
Dearer than birds, or flowers, or dew-
Never, ah me, pass never there,
Lest my poor dust should dream of you.
Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863-

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-
Blow cold and keen across the naked hills,

And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films,
And blur the casement-squares with glittering ice,
But go not near my love.

Wind of the West,

Wind of the few, far clouds,

Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands-
Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains,
And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens,
And sway the grasses and the mountain pines,
But let my dear one rest.

Wind of the East,

Wind of the sunrise seas,

Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains-
Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine,
And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars,
And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves,
Yet keep thou from my love.

But thou, sweet wind!

Wind of the fragrant South,

Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose!—
Over magnolia glooms and lilied lakes

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,
(Hark to the thrush's trilling)

Why so sad when the maiden rose

Love at your feet is spilling?

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