When the eye hardly sees, And the pulse hardly stirs, And the heart would scarcely quicken Though the voice were hers: Then the longing wasting fever Will be almost past; Sleep indeed come back again, And peace at last. Not till then, dear friends, Not till then, most like, most dear, The dove will fold its wings To settle here. Then to all her coldness I also shall be cold, Then I also have forgotten Our happy love of old. Close mine eyes with care, Cross my hands upon my breast, Let shadows and full silence Tell of rest: For she yet may look upon me Too proud to speak, but know One heart less loves her in the world Than loved her long ago. Strew flowers upon the bed And flowers upon the floor, Let all be sweet and comely When she stands at the door: Fair as a bridal chamber For her to come into, When the sunny day is over At falling of the dew. If she comes, watch her not But careless turn aside; She may weep if left alone With her beauty and her pride: She may pluck a leaf perhaps Or a languid violet When life and love are finished And even I forget. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GORSE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON ON A BUST OF DANTE by THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS A SATIRICAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL by JONATHAN SWIFT SAD MADRIGAL, SELECTION by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE TO A NEW YORK SHOP-GIRL DRESSED FOR SUNDAY by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH ON AN INFANT UNBORN, AND THE MOTHER DYING IN TRAVAIL by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |