GRIEF
Hadst thou been queen in Babylon,
My queen who lies so still,
A proud tumultuous pyre had shone
Upon thy burial hill.
And gold and pearl and amethyst,
Thy crown, thy gilded lyre,
Thy very slaves had kept thee tryst
In that high flaming fire.
And there had flung an ancient dirge
Against the burnished sky,
Like ocean threnodies that surge
And swell and swooning die.
But Love has crucified Death's fears,
The grave has set thee free,
And all the sweetness of slow tears
Is turned to mockery.
O white Lord Christ, Thy love's caress,
Thy prophecy that saith
These dead shall wake from weariness,
Shames all who mourn for death;
And faith in immortality,
Affrighted blind belief
That troubles death's reality,
Has crushed dim fragrant grief.
Nay, I were mad to weep for thee,—
But oh thy silken hair!
And oh the twilight memory,
The darkening despair!
See then, it is not thee I weep,
It is not thou art dead.
Thy lidded eyes are but asleep,
And weary thy dear head;
I weep the silver dreams we wrought,
Long years, long years ago;
I weep the sun-drowsed days that caught
Our dreams in their sweet flow.