 | Lays of France |  |
It may be, still, for many a year
Sarrazine counted tear on tear
To soften death unto the dead;
And many a thing, that they might hear
Sometimes all faintly in the bed
Of earth and leaves about them, said
—To touch them, if she might, and set
Some late desire of her at fret
Within them;—and, if, day or night,
The grave had let them, fair and white,
And far more wondrous as she was
Than in their memory, she would quite
Have hailed that one who should have earned
To come to her in any pause
Of death, with words that long had burned
Her breast, and love that had long turned
To fair earth near their hearts. But now,
The graves grew winterly, and how
It fared with them in that long sleep
She knew not: and they lay and dreamed,
Each one his dream, that he should keep
And hold her his for evermore.
Sarrazine counted tear on tear
To soften death unto the dead;
And many a thing, that they might hear
Sometimes all faintly in the bed
Of earth and leaves about them, said
—To touch them, if she might, and set
Some late desire of her at fret
Within them;—and, if, day or night,
The grave had let them, fair and white,
And far more wondrous as she was
Than in their memory, she would quite
Have hailed that one who should have earned
113
Of death, with words that long had burned
Her breast, and love that had long turned
To fair earth near their hearts. But now,
The graves grew winterly, and how
It fared with them in that long sleep
She knew not: and they lay and dreamed,
Each one his dream, that he should keep
And hold her his for evermore.
| Lays of France | |