I know what my heart is like Since your love died: It is like a hollow ledge Holding a little pool Left there by the tide, A little tepid pool, Drying inward from the edge. _Elaine_ Oh, come again to Astolat! I will not ask you to be kind. And you may go when you will go, And I will stay behind. I will not say how dear you are, Or ask you if you hold me dear, Or trouble you with things for you The way I did last year. So still the orchard, Lancelot, So very still the lake shall be, You could not guess--though you should guess-- What is become of me. So wide shall be the garden-walk, The garden-seat so very wide, You needs must think--if you should think-- The lily maid had died. Save that, a little way away, I’d watch you for a little while, To see you speak, the way you speak, And smile,--if you should smile. _Burial_ Mine is a body that should die at sea! And have for a grave, instead of a grave Six feet deep and the length of me, All the water that is under the wave! And terrible fishes to seize my flesh, Such as a living man might fear, And eat me while I am firm and fresh,-- Not wait till I’ve been dead for a year! _Mariposa_ Butterflies are white and blue In this field we wander through. Suffer me to take your hand. Death comes in a day or two. All the things we ever knew Will be ashes in that hour. Mark the transient butterfly, How he hangs upon the flower. Suffer me to take your hand. Suffer me to cherish you Till the dawn is in the sky. Whether I be false or true, Death comes in a day or two. _Doubt no more that Oberon_ Doubt no more that Oberon-- Never doubt that Pan Lived, and played a reed, and ran After nymphs in a dark forest In the merry, credulous days,-- Lived, and led a fairy band Over the indulgent land! Ah, for in this dourest, sorest Age man’s eye has looked upon, Death to fauns and death to fays, Still the dog-wood dares to raise-- Healthy tree, with trunk and root-- Ivory bowls that bear no fruit, And the starlings and the jays-- Birds that cannot even sing-- Dare to come again in spring! _Lament_ Listen, children: Your father is dead. From his old coats I’ll make you little jackets; I’ll make you little trousers From his old pants. There’ll be in his pockets Things he used to put there, Keys and pennies Covered with tobacco; Dan shall have the pennies To save in his bank; Anne shall have the keys To make a pretty noise with. Life must go on, And the dead be forgotten; Life must go on, Though good men die; Anne, eat your breakfast; Dan, take your medicine; Life must go on; I forget just why. _Exiled_ Searching my heart for its true sorrow, This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and people, Sick of the city, wanting the sea;