IN THE GRAVE

Dear Love — do you wake in that land where my waking is done?

Do you bare your brave head to the winds and the clouds and the sun?

And is Summer aflame?

Or has the night fallen to sleep on earth's wonderful breast,

And with it, all joys, save but you, who are dearest and best,

Wakeful — sighing my name?

Sometimes as I sleep, the sweet rain flickers over my head,

And smiling, I dream of the tears that your sorrow has shed;

Then I sigh and awake.

For the dreams of the grave are the dreams that have died in the morn,

And their ghosts alone haunt the cold earth where their maker was born,

For a woman's sweet sake.

Perhaps you are singing — and winding the garlands of May;

Not mine be the hand to withhold you the golden to-day,

Or give you pause to your song.

Perhaps the sweet blossoms may charm the grave's pestilent breath.

Ah! life is so short; so forget and be glad, dear — for death

Is so terribly long.