In Extremis

Now that Hope lies sick to death.
Come and weep;
None can stay her parting breath;

Dark and deep
Let her grave be, — cool and quiet
Under all the summer riot.

At her head let roses be,
For a sign
Of Love's ardent wreath that she

Might not twine;
And, for Peace, she might not meet with,
Lilies cover her white feet with.

Now that she is dead and dumb,
Stay your tears;
In the years that are to come,

Sunless years,
She again will never move you,
Only hopeless sorrow prove you.

All your weeping is in vain, —
She is dead!
Her no tears can make again, —

Lift her head.
Dearest, most divine deceiver.
Say your last farewell, and leave her.