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At His Grave.
If death were an eternal sleep,
I would lay me down by him,
Never to wound more, nor to weep,
Nor grope aweary, maimed, and dim,
Inflict no injury, no pain,
Nor ache with this dull doubt again!
While the birken shadows pass
O’er the marble and the grass,
I lean upon thy cross and weep;
Very sweet were sleep,
With ne’er a tear,
Nor hope nor fear!
If thou behold me from thy bowers
Smile on mine offering of flowers,
And help me, dear!
Thou hast entered into life,
While we rave in mortal strife:
Love, receive the offering
Of unworthy words I bring!
