CCXXXI Dirge
If thou wilt ease thine heart
Of love, and all its smart—
Then sleep, dear, sleep!
And not a sorrow
Hang any tear on your eyelashes; 5
Lie still and deep,
Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes
The rim o’ the sun to-morrow
In Eastern sky.
But wilt thou cure thine heart 10
Of love, and all its smart—
Then die, dear, die!
’Tis deeper, sweeter,
Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming
With folded eye; 15
And then alone, amid the beaming
Of love’s stars, thou’lt meet her
In Eastern sky.
Thomas Lovell Beddoes.