Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
I died for Beauty
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—
But how could I forget thee?
Let thy time be when it will
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Fear no more the heat o' the sun
What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?
Speak! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet;
Answer me, answer me!
I ask no monument, proud and high,