A PARTING.

I WILL not wake you, dear; no tears shall creep

To chill the still bed where you lie asleep;

No cry, no word, shall break the sanctity

Of the great silence where God lets you lie.

I will not tease your grave with flower or stone;

You are tired, my heart; you shall be left alone.

And even the kisses that my lips must lay

Upon the mould of the triumphant clay

Shall be so soft — like those a mother lays

Upon her sleeping baby's little face —

You will not feel my kisses, will not hear;

You are tired: sleep on, I will not wake you, dear!

But when the good day comes, you will hear me cry,

“Ah, make a little place where I can lie!”

And half awakened, you will feel me creep

Into the folds of your familiar sleep,

And draw them round us, with a tender moan,

“How could you let me sleep so long alone?”