Page:Florence Earle Coates Mine and Thine 1904 121.jpg

 Love, with throbbing heart of fire,—

Love, with thrilling voice and low,—

Hast thou quenchèd fond desire

In this breast of snow?

Then, O Death! I cry to you

From my grief immortal:

Goddess kind—of all most true—

Ope to me your portal!

In your calm my senses steep;

Close mine eyes, from tears grown dim;

Give me sleep—I ask but sleep—

In the grave, with him.

Can it be that flowers will spring

Where all lifeless Love shall lie?