Requiem

Wither'd pansies faint and sweet,
O'er his breast in silence shed,
Faded lilies o'er his feet,
Waning roses round his head,
Where in dreamless sleep he lies —
Folded palms and sealed eyes —
Young Love, within my bosom — dead.

Young Love that was so fond, so fair,
With his mouth of rosy red,
Argent wing and golden hair,
And those blue eyen, glory-fed
From some fount of splendor, far
Beyond or moon or sun or star —
And can it be that he is dead?

Ay! his breast is cold as snow:
Pulse and breath forever fled;
If I kiss'd him ever so,
To my kiss he were as lead;
If I clipp'd him as of yore
He would answer me no more
With lip or hand — for he is dead.

But breathe no futile sigh; no tear
Smirch his pure and lonely bed.
Let no foolish cippus rear
Its weight above him. Only spread
Rose, lily, pale forget-me-not,
And pansies round the silent spot
Where in his youth he lieth — dead.