  I CANNOT look upon thy grave, Though there the rose is sweet: Better to hear the long wave wash These wastes about my feet! Shall I take comfort? Dost thou live A spirit, though afar, With a deep hush about thee, like The stillness round a star? Oh, thou art cold! In that high sphere Thou art a thing apart, Losing in saner happiness This madness of the heart. And yet, at times, thou still shalt feel A passing breath, a pain; Disturb’d, as though a door in heaven Had sped and closed again. And thou shalt shiver, while the hymns The solemn hymns, shall cease; A moment half remember me: Then turn away in peace. But oh! forevermore thy look, Thy laugh, thy charm, thy tone, Thy sweet and wayward loveliness, Dear trivial things are gone! Therefore I look not on thy grave, Though there the rose is sweet; But rather hear the loud wave wash These wastes about my feet. |
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