The Complete Poems

When I Am Dead, My Dearest When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.

Remember Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more, day by day, You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

A Pause of Thought I looked for that which is not, nor can be, And hope deferred made my heart sick in truth But years must pass before a hope of youth Is resigned utterly. I watched and waited with a steadfast will: And though the object seemed to flee away That I so longed for, ever day by day I watched and waited still. Sometimes I said: This thing shall be no more; My expectation wearies and shall cease; I will resign it now and be at peace: Yet never gave it o'er. Sometimes I said: It is an empty name I long for; to a name why should I give The peace of all the days I have to live?-- Yet gave it all the same. Alas, thou foolish one! alike unfit For healthy joy and salutary pain: Thou knowest the chase useless, and again Turnest to follow it.

I lock my door upon myself, And bar them out; but who shall wall Self from myself, most loathed of all?

For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge, I live alone, I look to die alone: Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge, Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back, My heart goes sighing after swallows flown On sometime summer's unreturning track.

In an Artist’s Studio One face looks out from all his canvases, One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans: We found her hidden just behind those screens, That mirror gave back all her loveliness. A queen in opal or in ruby dress, A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens, A saint, an angel - every canvas means The same one meaning, neither more nor less. He feeds upon her face by day and night, And she with true kind eyes looks back on him, Fair as the moon and joyful as the light: Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim; Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright; Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

Give me the lowest place: not that I dare Ask for that lowest place, but Thou hast died That I might live and share Thy glory by Thy side. Give me the lowest place: of if for me That lowest place too high, make one more low Where I may sit and see My God and love Thee so.

Then a hundred sad voices lifted a wail, And a hundred glad voices piped on the gale: 'Time is short, life is short,' they took up the tale: 'Life is sweet, love is sweet, use to-day while you may; Love is sweet, and to-morrow may fail; Love is sweet, use to-day.

For I am bound with fleshly bands, Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope; I strain my heart, I stretch my hands, And catch at hope.

The First Spring Day I wonder if the sap is stirring yet, If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate, If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun And crocus res are kindling one by one: Sing, robin, sing; I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring. I wonder if the springtide of this year Will bring another Spring both lost and dear; If heart and spirit will nd out their Spring, Or if the world alone will bud and sing: Sing, hope, to me; Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory. The sap will surely quicken soon or late, The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate; So Spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom, Or in this world, or in the world to come: Sing, voice of Spring, Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing.

Two Pursuits A voice said: ‘Follow, follow:’ and I rose And followed far into the dreamy night, Turning my back upon the pleasant light. It led me where the bluest water ows, And would not let me drink; where the corn grows I dared not pause, but went uncheered by sight Or touch; until at length in evil plight It left me, wearied out with many woes. Some time I sat as one bereft of sense: But soon another voice from very far Called: ‘Follow, follow:’ and I rose again.° Now on my night has dawned a blesséd star; Kind, steady hands my sinking steps sustain, And will not leave me till I shall go hence.

Dream Land Where sunless rivers weep° Their waves into the deep, She sleeps a charméd sleep: Awake her not. Led by a single star, She came from very far To seek where shadows are Her pleasant lot.° She left the rosy morn, She left the elds of corn, For twilight cold and lorn° And water springs. Through sleep, as through a veil, She sees the sky look pale, And hears the nightingale That sadly sings. Rest, rest, a perfect rest Shed over brow and breast; Her face is toward the west, In the long ago.

When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet;° And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.°

MONDAY IN HOLY WEEK “The Voice of my Beloved.” Once I ached for thy dear sake: Wilt thou cause Me now to ache? Once I bled for thee in pain: Wilt thou rend My Heart again? Crown of thorns and shameful tree, Bitter death I bore for thee, Bore My Cross to carry thee, And wilt thou have nought of Me?

I WISH I WERE A LITTLE BIRD I wish I were a little bird     That out of sight doth soar, I wish I were a song once heard     But often pondered o’er, Or shadow of a lily stirred     By wind upon the floor, Or echo of a loving word     Worth all that went before, Or memory of a hope deferred     That springs again no more.