DEAD AND GONE
Can you tell me how he rests,
Flowers, growing o’er him there?
His a right warm heart, my sweets,—
So, cover it with care.
Can you tell me how he lies
Such nights out in the cold,
O cricket, with your plaintive call,
O glow-worm, with your gold?
If my eyes are sorrowful,
Well may they weep, I trow,—
Since his dead eyes gazed into them,
They have been sad enow.
If my heart make moan and ache,
Well may it break, I’m sure—
For his dead love is more, ah me!
More than it can endure.
ONE NIGHT
I
A night of rain. The wind is out.
And I had wished it otherwise:
A calm, still night; no scudding skies;
Or, in the scud, above the rout,
The moon; by whose pale light my eyes
Might meet her eyes; the smile that tries
To come but will not; lips, that pout
With seeming anger, all surmise,
When I have said “I love your lies”—
Lips I shall kiss before she dies.