Poetry Archives

Dearest one, when I am dead
  Never seek to follow me.
    Never mount the quiet hill
    Where the copper leaves are still,
  As my heart is, on the tree
Standing at my narrow bed.

Only of your tenderness,
  Pray a little prayer at night.
    Say: “I have forgiven now—
    I, so weak and sad; O Thou,
  Wreathed in thunder, robed in light,
Surely Thou wilt do no less.”