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.
concerning which Mr. G. A. Sala wrote to the Editor (on August 17, 1882.) “I note your book for a proximate ‘Echo.’ I have not read Oscar Wilde’s poems, but in the very sweet stanzas (‘Requiescat’) which you quote, I mark a singular passage:—