 | Poems |  |
iii
Bid me remember, O my gracious Lord,
The flattering words of love are merely breath!
O not in roses wreathe the shining sword,
Bid me remember, O my gracious Lord,
The bitter taste of death!
The flattering words of love are merely breath!
O not in roses wreathe the shining sword,
Bid me remember, O my gracious Lord,
The bitter taste of death!
Wrap not in clouds of dread for me that hour
When I must leave behind this house of clay,
When the grass withers and the shrunken flower!
Bid me, O Lord, in that most dreadful hour,
Not fall, but fly away!
When I must leave behind this house of clay,
When the grass withers and the shrunken flower!
Bid me, O Lord, in that most dreadful hour,
Not fall, but fly away!
| Poems | |