Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/198

 HE will not die, they say, She will but put her beauty by
 * And hie away.

Oh, but her beauty gone, how lonely Then will seem all reverie,
 * How black to me!

All things will sad be made And every hope a memory,
 * All gladness dead.

Ghosts of the past will know My weakest hour, and whisper to me,
 * And coldly go.

And hers in deep of sleep, Clothed in its mortal beauty I shall see,
 * And, waking, weep.

Naught will my mind then find In man's false Heaven my peace to be:
 * All blind, and blind.