Classic Poem

Bury me not
In some lone spot,
Though tender flowers be there of love's own training;
Yea, not the meadow-sweet
And ferns about my feet
Would keep my lonesome spirit from complaining;
My soul would fly afar
Where human spirits are,
In sight of human forms some solace gaining.

Take me to where
In weighted air
Of mine own well-beloved eternal city
Great fervid thoughts arise,
Yea, where men's glowing eyes
Gleam ever with fresh hope or love or pity;
Oh set me but within
London's impassioned din,
And even my dead pale lips may chant a ditty.

Plant fragrant bloom
Above my tomb,
Yea, all the season's gentlest maiden flowers;
Ferns, and the creamy grace
Of lilies thereon place,
And build above me rose-hung shaded bowers;
But take my body not
To any country plot,
There to be tortured by the brainless showers.

Let flowers of thought
To me be brought,
Yea, all the pent-up city's burning treasures;
When lovers young begin
Their new sweet life to win,
Let me in spirit smile amid their pleasures;
Let the strange sunset red
That crowns dim London's head
Be the first air of heaven my wing-sweep measures.

No rest I crave,
No quiet grave,
But ceaseless passionate life, — yea, this for ever;
A living spirit high
I would not stoop to die
Or cease the old songful turbulent endeavour;
I would for ever know
Sweet love, though that be woe,
And passion, though its pain abateth never.

Give me, O Death,
Not slumbering breath
As of a child, but all a man's completeness;
Grant me the perfect strength
And risen power at length
Of man, and pour upon me woman's sweetness
From lips of women dear
Whom thy hand may bring near,
Staying for me their heavenly swift-foot fleetness.

I fear thee not
If but my lot
Bring me love's sacred gifts and spotless favour:
Yea, if love's utmost glow
My living soul may know
And love's fruit's innermost most precious savour,
Methinks I have a force
Thee, pale Death, to unhorse,
And never at thy thundering tilt need waver.
*****

O woman sweet
Whose gentle feet
Have brought me in this world mine holiest blessing,
Be near me, kiss me, when
No help avails of men,
But only thine help, godlike and caressing;
Lift me above the tomb,
Yea, sever thou the gloom,
And deaden thou death's fleshly pangs distressing.

Rise with me, love,
This life above,
Long ere the actual death the doorway shadeth;
That when his real step sounds
And his cold breath abounds,
And his deep sword our fast-joined heart invadeth,
Victors already we
May, in our calm strength, be —
And conquerors then, as each the other aideth.

Then in no tomb,
No death-crowned gloom,
We — you and I, sweet love — will rest or tarry;
No blossoms shall we need,
Nor priests to intercede,
Nor prayers our air-light souls towards heaven to carry:
For death died long ago
When, white as just-fallen snow,
God stooped, august from heaven, our souls to marry.