Page:Poems, Volume 2, Coates, 1916.djvu/161



OVE is dying; lay him low;

Pile the blossoms for his bed:

Here, where languid poppies blow,

Pillow soft his beauteous head!

Let their dream-breath float around him,

Even as my arms enwound him—

In the summer, long ago!

Say not it was yesterday!

Hours have been as years since then!

And shall rapture, fled away,

Never more return again?

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!