 | Poems |  |
NOW.
“Quand on est mort c'est pour longtemps.”
When I am lying pale and dead,
Come not, dear friends, around my bed
And pour your loss in deafened ears
And wash my heedless face with tears.
What thrill of hope or tenderness
Will beat beneath my burial dress?
What look of gratitude arise,
And lift the lids of sightless eyes?
What loving voice escape those lips,
From which no speech or language slips?
Alas! I cannot rouse and say:
“If ye lament me I will stay.”
Speak while I hear, and while I long
To feel your love is true and strong,
While peace can soothe my troubled brow,
Wait not to miss me; hold me now!
Come not, dear friends, around my bed
And pour your loss in deafened ears
And wash my heedless face with tears.
What thrill of hope or tenderness
Will beat beneath my burial dress?
What look of gratitude arise,
And lift the lids of sightless eyes?
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From which no speech or language slips?
Alas! I cannot rouse and say:
“If ye lament me I will stay.”
Speak while I hear, and while I long
To feel your love is true and strong,
While peace can soothe my troubled brow,
Wait not to miss me; hold me now!
Set not your kisses on my cheek,
Nor on my mouth, too cold to speak;
And in your fruitless grief forbear
To shed their sweetness on my hair.
In life I long to feel their breath,
But what are kisses worth to Death?
Like blossoms dropped on ice and snow,
Like songs when howling tempests blow,
A wasted gift, a vain caress
That might have been a power to bless,
A longing answered all in vain,
A touch that Death must needs disdain
That might a life with joy endow,
Oh! if you kiss me, kiss me now.
Nor on my mouth, too cold to speak;
And in your fruitless grief forbear
To shed their sweetness on my hair.
In life I long to feel their breath,
But what are kisses worth to Death?
Like blossoms dropped on ice and snow,
Like songs when howling tempests blow,
A wasted gift, a vain caress
That might have been a power to bless,
A longing answered all in vain,
A touch that Death must needs disdain
That might a life with joy endow,
Oh! if you kiss me, kiss me now.
Remember not when I am gone
The deeds I did or would have done,
How much I loved, how vainly strove
To find an answer in your love;
Nor weep to think what loss is yours,
Since neither life nor love endures;
Say not with tears and cries and prayers;
“Would that we showed her tenderer cares,
Had patience with the faults we knew,
Clung to the heart so warm and true,
That now we weep with hopeless pain,
And know will never come again.”
Ah! breathe not then the useless vow;
But if you love me, love me now.
The deeds I did or would have done,
How much I loved, how vainly strove
To find an answer in your love;
Nor weep to think what loss is yours,
Since neither life nor love endures;
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“Would that we showed her tenderer cares,
Had patience with the faults we knew,
Clung to the heart so warm and true,
That now we weep with hopeless pain,
And know will never come again.”
Ah! breathe not then the useless vow;
But if you love me, love me now.
Nor, standing round my wintry grave,
Too late to serve me or to save,
Fling on it all you have to give;
“At last her follies we forgive!”
An angel might repel with scorn
Such speech of poor repentance born,
Might weep to see such Levite pride
Pass coldly by a coffin's side.
No! if within your hearts there be
A kind but slumbering thought of me,
A memory of the vanished past,
A hope of peace and love at last,
A speechless prayer, a silent sense
That sometimes speaks in my defense,
That says: “Our life is not too long,
And we, perhaps, were sometimes wrong.”
Ah! listen to that pleading voice
And bid a living heart rejoice.
If late remorse or grief allow
Forgiveness then, forgive me now.
Too late to serve me or to save,
Fling on it all you have to give;
“At last her follies we forgive!”
An angel might repel with scorn
Such speech of poor repentance born,
Might weep to see such Levite pride
Pass coldly by a coffin's side.
No! if within your hearts there be
A kind but slumbering thought of me,
A memory of the vanished past,
A hope of peace and love at last,
A speechless prayer, a silent sense
That sometimes speaks in my defense,
That says: “Our life is not too long,
And we, perhaps, were sometimes wrong.”
Ah! listen to that pleading voice
And bid a living heart rejoice.
If late remorse or grief allow
Forgiveness then, forgive me now.
| Poems | |