LOVE'S BURIAL.

Let us clear a little space,

And make Love a burial place.

He is dead, dear, as you see,

And he wearies you and me,

Growing heavier, day by day,

Let us bury him, I say.

Wings of dead white butterflies,

These shall shroud him, as he lies

In his casket rich and rare,

Made of finest maiden-hair.

With the pollen of the rose

Let us his white eye-lids close.

Put the rose thorn in his hand,

Shorn of leaves — you understand.

Let some holy water fall

On his dead face, tears of gall —

As we kneel by him and say,

“Dreams to dreams,” and turn away.

Those grave diggers, Doubt, Distrust,

They will lower him to the dust.

Let us part here with a kiss,

You go that way, I go this.

Since we buried Love to-day

We will walk a separate way.