From the Antique (The wind shall lull us yet)

The wind shall lull us yet.
The flowers shall spring above us
And those who hate forget,
And those forget who love us.
The pulse of hope shall cease,
Of joy and of regretting:
We twain shall sleep in peace,
Forgotten and forgetting.
For us no sun shall rise,
Nor wind rejoice, nor river.
Where we with fast-closed eyes
Shall sleep and sleep for ever.