Part 178

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 sejours 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]

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 [1844-1912]

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.

Good-night! good-night! I do not fear the end, The conflict with the billows dark and high; And yet, if I could touch thy hand, my friend, I think it would be easier to die;

If I could feel through all the quiet waves Of my deep hair thy tender breath a-thrill, I could go downward to the place of graves With eyes a-shine and pale lips smiling still;

Or it may be that, if through all the strife And pain of parting I should hear thy call, I would come singing back to sweet, sweet life, And know no mystery of death at all.