THE DYING LOVER

THE grass that is under me now
Will soon be over me, Sweet;
When you walk this way again
I shall not hear your feet.

You may walk this way again,
And shed your tears like dew;
They will be no more to me then
Than mine are now to you!

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]

WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME”

WHEN the grass shall cover me,
Head to foot where I am lying;

When not any wind that blows,
Summer blooms nor winter snows,
Shall awake me to your sighing:

Close above me as you pass,
You will say, "How kind she was,'
You will say, "How true she was,"
When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me,
Holden close to earth's warm bosom,—
While I laugh, or weep, or sing,
Nevermore, for anything,

You will find in blade and blossom,
Sweet small voices, odorous,
Tender pleaders in my cause,
That shall speak me as I was—
When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me!

Ah, beloved, in my sorrow

Very patient, I can wait,
Knowing that, or soon or late,

MAKE me no vows of constancy, dear friend,
To love me, though I die, thy whole life long,
And love no other till thy days shall end-
Nay, it were rash and wrong.

If thou canst love another, be it so;

I would not reach out of my quiet grave To bind thy heart, if it should choose to goLove should not be a slave.

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene

In clearer light than gilds those earthly morns, Above the jealousies and envies keen,

Which sow this life with thorns.

Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress;

If, after death, my soul should linger here; Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness, Love's presence, warm and near.

Florence Vane

It would not make me sleep more peacefully

That thou were wasting all thy life in woe For my poor sake; what love thou hast for me, Bestow it ere I go.

Carve not upon a stone when I am dead

The praises which remorseful mourners give To women's graves—a tardy recompense— But speak them while I live.

Heap not the heavy marble o'er my head

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To shut away the sunshine and the dew;
Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses wave,
And raindrops filter through.

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay

Than I; but, trust me, thou canst never find One who will love and serve thee night and day With a more single mind.

Forget me when I die! The violets

Above my rest will blossom just as blue; Or miss my tears; e'en nature's self forgets; But while I live, be true.

FLORENCE VANE

I LOVED thee long and dearly,
Florence Vane;

My life's bright dream and early

Hath come again;

I renew in my fond vision,

My heart's dear pain—

My hopes, and thy derision,
Florence Vane.

The ruin, lone and hoary,
The ruin old,

Where thou didst hark my story,

At even told

Unknown

That spot-the hues Elysian
Of sky and plain-

I treasure in my vision,
Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses

In their prime;

Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;

Thy heart was as a river

Without a main.

Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane!

But, fairest, coldest wonder!
Thy glorious clay

Lieth the green sod under

Alas, the day!

And it boots not to remember
Thy disdain,

To quicken love's pale ember,
Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep;

The daisies love to dally

Where maidens sleep.

May their bloom, in beauty vying,

Never wane

Where thine earthly part is lying,

Florence Vane!

Philip Pendleton Cooke [1816–1850]

"IF SPIRITS WALK"

IF spirits walk, love, when the night climbs slow
The slant footpath where we were wont to go,
Be sure that I shall take the selfsame way
To the hill-crest, and shoreward, down the gray,
Sheer, graveled slope, where vetches straggling grow.