IF thou wilt ease thine heart Then sleep, dear, sleep; And not a sorrow Hang any tear on your eyelashes; Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes In eastern sky. But wilt thou cure thine heart Of love and all its smart, Then die, dear, die; 'Tis deeper, sweeter, Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming With folded eye; And alone amid the beaming Of love's stars, thou'lt meet her In eastern sky. Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 108 A LAMENT. A LAMENT. SWIFTER far than summer's flight, As the earth when leaves are dead, The swallow Summer comes again, To fly with thee, false as thou: My heart each day desires the morrow: Lilies for a bridal bed, Pansies let my flowers be: On the living grave I bear Waste one hope, one fear, for me. P. B. Shelley. |