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73
THE INJUNCTION.
When all is o'er for me on this bright earth,
Mourn me, with dove-like sweetness, in thy sorrow.
Not with wild anguish! With the desert's dearth,
Let thy worn heart the desert's calmness borrow!—
Mourn me, with dove-like sweetness, in thy sorrow.
Not with wild anguish! With the desert's dearth,
Let thy worn heart the desert's calmness borrow!—
Its calmness, sunniness, and breezeless hush,
A waiting still its promised flowering-time!
When, like the rose's heart, its depths shall flush
Rich with resplendence of day's vernal prime.
A waiting still its promised flowering-time!
When, like the rose's heart, its depths shall flush
Rich with resplendence of day's vernal prime.
O, wait our meeting-hour in dream-fraught peace!
It yet shall be, though long years part us first;
O, let thy soul's long-wearying conflicts cease!
Fountains shall flow to quench earth's deadliest thirst.
It yet shall be, though long years part us first;
O, let thy soul's long-wearying conflicts cease!
Fountains shall flow to quench earth's deadliest thirst.
74
When I am wrapt in silence and the grave,
Go, wander by yon ever-wandering river!
Ofttimes we've watched its bluely-glancing wave
Together—but 'tis done. Alas! we sever.
Go, wander by yon ever-wandering river!
Ofttimes we've watched its bluely-glancing wave
Together—but 'tis done. Alas! we sever.
That voiceful stream, by water-lilies crowned—
Oft on their wave-glassed images we've gazed,
While noontide's pomp burnt gorgeously around,
And all but these in fierce refulgence blazed.
Oft on their wave-glassed images we've gazed,
While noontide's pomp burnt gorgeously around,
And all but these in fierce refulgence blazed.
Dream to the chiming of yon gleamy fountain,
Dream of the hours we've marked its lovely play,
While the broad sun yet steeped the reddening mountain
With the last floating splendours of his ray.
Dream of the hours we've marked its lovely play,
While the broad sun yet steeped the reddening mountain
With the last floating splendours of his ray.
Go, in the shadow of remembered hours
Sit listening to the song of our own bird;
Braid me a death-crown of night-blowing flowers,
Nor let my name be a forgotten word.
Sit listening to the song of our own bird;
Braid me a death-crown of night-blowing flowers,
Nor let my name be a forgotten word.
75
The sweet familiar tasks we shared of yore
I would, from time to time, ye should repeat;
O, think of me when all for me is o'er!
Yet be the memory calmly, gravely sweet.
I would, from time to time, ye should repeat;
O, think of me when all for me is o'er!
Yet be the memory calmly, gravely sweet.
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