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 recompenseBut 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 hucs 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.

Requiescat

Look for me not when gusts of winter blow,
When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and snow;
I would not come thy dear eyes to affray,
If spirits walk.

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But when, in June, the pines are whispering low,
And when their breath plays with thy bright hair so
As some one's fingers once were used to play-
That hour when birds leave song, and children pray,
Keep the old tryst, sweetheart, and thou shalt know
If spirits walk.

Sophie Jewett [1861-1909]

REQUIESCAT

TREAD lightly, she is near,

Under the snow;
Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast;

I vex my heart alone,

She is at rest.

Peace, peace; she cannot hear

Lyre or sonnet;

All my life's buried here

Heap earth upon it.

Oscar Wilde [1856-1900]

LYRIC

Ah, dans ces mornes séjours

Les jamais sont les toujours.-PAUL VERLAINE

You would have understood me, had you waited; I could have loved you, dear! as well as he: Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated Always to disagree.

What is the use of speech?

Silence were fitter:

Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid. Though all the words we ever spake were bitter, Shall I reproach you dead?

Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover
All the old anger, setting us apart:
Always, in all, in truth was I your lover;
Always, I held your heart.

I have met other women who were tender,
As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare.
Think you I turned to them, or made surrender,
I who had found you fair?

Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited,
I had fought death for you, better than he:
But from the very first, dear! we were fated
Always to disagree.

Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses
Love that in life was not to be our part:
On your low-lying mound between the roses,
Sadly I cast my heart.

I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter;
Death and the darkness give you unto me;
Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter,
Hardly can disagree.

Ernest Dowson (1867-1900]

Good-Night

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ROMANCE

My Love dwelt in a Northern land.
A gray tower in a forest green
Was hers, and far on either hand

The long wash of the waves was seen,
And leagues and leagues of yellow sand,
The woven forest boughs between!

And through the silver Northern night
The sunset slowly died away,
And herds of strange deer, lily-white,
Stole forth among the branches gray;
About the coming of the light,

They fled like ghosts before the day!

I know not if the forest green

Still girdles round that castle gray;
I know not if the boughs between
The white deer vanish ere the day;
Above my Love the grass is green,
My heart is colder than the clay!

Andrew Lang [1844

GOOD-NIGHT

GOOD-NIGHT, dear friend! I say good-night to thee
Across the moonbeams, tremulous and white,

Bridging all space between us, it may be.

Lean low, sweet friend; it is the last good-night.

For, lying low upon my couch, and still,
The fever flush evanished from my face,
I heard them whisper softly," "Tis His will;
Angels will give her happier resting-place!"

And so from sight of tears that fell like rain,
And sounds of sobbing smothered close and low,

I turned my white face to the window-pane,
To say good-night to thee before I go.