For Rosaline's Album

Do you hear the low winds singing,
And streams singing on their bed? --

Very distant bells are ringing
In a chapel for the dead: --
Death-pale better than life-red.

Mother, come to me in rest.

And bring little May to see.
Shall I bid no other guest?
Seven slow nights have passed away
Over my forgotten clay:

None must come save you and she.