For me no linen winding-sheet! But gown me very grand and bright. Bring forth my frock of muslin sweet, With many ruffles soft and white.
My favourite frock! I wore it well, Who wore it at love's flowering. And since his look upon it fell, I've kept it as a sacred thing.
For me no funeral coronet, No tear-embroidered cushion place; But o 'er my fair lace pillow let My hair droop free about my face.
Dear pillow! Often did it mark, In mad, sweet nights our brows unlit, And, all within the gondola dark, Did count our kisses infinite.
About my waxen hands supine, Folded in prayer at life's deep gloam, My rosary of opals twine, Blessed by His Holiness at Rome.
I'll finger it, when bedded cold Where never one shall rise. How oft His lips upon my lips have told A _Pater_ and an _Ave_ soft!
Every lover deep hath set In a sacred nook apart Some dear token for the heart In its hope or its regret.
One hath nested safe away Blackest ringlet ever seen, Over which an azure sheen Lieth, as on wing of jay.
One from shoulder pale as milk Took a tress more golden-fine Than the threads that softly shine In the silk-worm's wonder-silk.
In its hiding mystical, Memory's reliquary sweet, Glances of another greet Gloves with fingers white and small.
And another yet may list To inhale a faint perfume Of the violets from her room, Freshly given--faded, kissed.
Here a slipper's curving grace One with sighing treasureth. There another guards a breath In a mask's light edge of lace.
I've no slipper to revere, Neither glove nor tress nor flower; But I cherish for love's dower A divine, adorèd tear,--
Fallen from the blue above, Clearest dew, heaven's drop for me, Pearl dissolved secretly In the chalice of my love.
To mine eyes the dim-worn dew Beams, a gem of Orient worth, Standing from the parchment forth, Diamond of a sapphire blue,--
Steadfast, lustreful and deep! Tear that fell unhoped, unsought, On a song my soul once wrought, From an eye unused to weep.
While up and down the earth men pant and plod, March, laughing at the showers and days unsteady, And whispering secret orders to the sod, For Spring makes ready.
And slyly when the world is sleeping yet, He smooths out collars for the Easter daisies, And fashions golden buttercups to set In woodland mazes.