Cold And Quiet.

Cold, my dear,—cold and quiet. In their cups on yonder lea, Cowslips fold the brown bee's diet; So the moss enfoldeth thee. "Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower— Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree; And when our children sleep," she sighed, "at the dusk hour, And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me!" Lost, my dear? Lost! nay deepest Love is that which loseth least; Through the night-time while thou sleepest, Still I watch the shrouded east. Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth, "Lost" is no word for such a love as mine; Love from her past to me a present giveth, And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine. Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth That which was, and not in vain Sacred have I kept, God knoweth, Love's last words atween us twain. "Hold by our past, my only love, my lover; Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me!" Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang over. Love, now the children slumber, I come out to thee.