Volume II Part 19 (1/2)

Thou art rose-lined from the cold, And meant verily to hold Life's pure pleasures manifold.

XXVI.

I am pale as crocus grows Close beside a rose-tree's root; Whosoe'er would reach the rose, Treads the crocus underfoot.

_I_, like May-bloom on thorn-tree, Thou, like merry summer-bee,-- Fit that I be plucked for thee!

XXVII.

Yet who plucks me?--no one mourns, I have lived my season out, And now die of my own thorns Which I could not live without.

Sweet, be merry! How the light Comes and goes! If it be night, Keep the candles in my sight.

XXVIII.

Are there footsteps at the door?

Look out quickly. Yea, or nay?

Some one might be waiting for Some last word that I might say.

Nay? So best!--so angels would Stand off clear from deathly road, Not to cross the sight of G.o.d.

XXIX.

Colder grow my hands and feet.

When I wear the shroud I made, Let the folds lie straight and neat, And the rosemary be spread, That if any friend should come, (To see _thee_, Sweet!) all the room May be lifted out of gloom.

x.x.x.

And, dear Bertha, let me keep On my hand this little ring, Which at nights, when others sleep, I can still see glittering!

Let me wear it out of sight, In the grave,--where it will light All the dark up, day and night.

x.x.xI.

On that grave drop not a tear!

Else, though fathom-deep the place, Through the woollen shroud I wear I shall feel it on my face.

Rather smile there, blessed one, Thinking of me in the sun, Or forget me--smiling on!

x.x.xII.

Art thou near me? nearer! so-- Kiss me close upon the eyes, That the earthly light may go Sweetly, as it used to rise When I watched the morning-grey Strike, betwixt the hills, the way He was sure to come that day.

x.x.xIII.

So,--no more vain words be said!

The hosannas nearer roll.

Mother, smile now on thy Dead, I am death-strong in my soul.

Mystic Dove alit on cross, Guide the poor bird of the snows Through the snow-wind above loss!

x.x.xIV.