Poetry Archives

FOR DOROTHY, 18th August, 1900


I will not wake you, dear; no tears shall creep
To chill the still bed where you lie asleep;
No cry, no word, shall break the sanctity
Of the great silence where God lets you lie.
I will not tease your grave with flower or stone;
You are tired, my heart; you shall be left alone.
And even the kisses that my lips must lay
Upon the mould of the triumphant clay
Shall be so soft—like those a mother lays
Upon her sleeping baby’s little face—
You will not feel my kisses, will not hear;
You are tired: sleep on, I will not wake you, dear!
But when the good day comes, you will hear me cry,
“Ah, make a little place where I can lie!”
And half awakened, you will feel me creep
Into the folds of your familiar sleep,
And draw them round us, with a tender moan,
“How could you let me sleep so long alone?”