COLD AND QUIET.

Cold, my dear,— cold and quiet.

In their cups on yonder lea,

Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet;

So the moss enfoldeth thee.

“Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower —

Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree;

And when our children sleep,” she sighed, “at the dusk hour,

And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me!”

Lost, my dear? Lost! nay deepest

Love is that which loseth least;

Through the night-time while thou sleepest,

Still I watch the shrouded east.

Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth,

“Lost” is no word for such a love as mine;

Love from her past to me a present giveth,

And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine.

Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth

That which was, and not in vain

Sacred have I kept, God knoweth,

Love's last words atween us twain.

“Hold by our past, my only love, my lover;

Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me!”

Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang over.

Love, now the children slumber, I come out to thee.