Oh, let it be a night a lyric rain And singing breezes, when my bell is tolled. I have so loved the rain that I would hold Last in my ears its friendly, dim refrain. I shall lie cool and quiet, who have lain Fevered, and watched the book of day unfold. Death will not see me flinch; the heart is bold That pain has made incapable of pain. Kinder the busy worms than ever love; It will be peace to lie there, empty-eyed, My bed made secret by the leveling showers, My breast replenishing the weeds above. And you will say of me, "Then has she died? Perhaps I should have sent a spray of flowers." "_I Shall Come Back_" I shall come back without fanfaronade Of wailing wind and graveyard panoply; But, trembling, slip from cool Eternity-- A mild and most bewildered little shade. I shall not make sepulchral midnight raid, But softly come where I had longed to be In April twilight's unsung melody, And I, not you, shall be the one afraid. Strange, that from lovely dreamings of the dead I shall come back to you, who hurt me most. You may not feel my hand upon your head, I'll be so new and inexpert a ghost. Perhaps you will not know that I am near,-- And that will break my ghostly heart, my dear. _Condolence_ They hurried here, as soon as you had died, Their faces damp with haste and sympathy, And pressed my hand in theirs, and smoothed my knee, And clicked their tongues, and watched me, mournful-eyed. Gently they told me of that Other Side-- How, even then, you waited there for me, And what ecstatic meeting ours would be. Moved by the lovely tale, they broke, and cried. And when I smiled, they told me I was brave, And they rejoiced that I was comforted, And left, to tell of all the help they gave. But I had smiled to think how you, the dead, So curiously preoccupied and grave, Would laugh, could you have heard the things they said. _The Immortals_ If you should sail for Trebizond, or die, Or cry another name in your first sleep, Or see me board a train, and fail to sigh, Appropriately, I'd clutch my breast and weep. And you, if I should wander through the door, Or sin, or seek a nunnery, or save My lips and give my cheek, would tread the floor And aptly mention poison and the grave. Therefore the mooning world is gratified, Quoting how prettily we sigh and swear; And you and I, correctly side by side, Shall live as lovers when our bones are bare; And though we lie forever enemies, Shall rank with Abélard and Héloïse. _A Portrait_