I WILL not wake you, dear; no tears shall creep To chill the still bed where you lie asleep; No cry, no word, shall break the sanctity Of the great silence where God lets you lie. I will not tease your grave with flower or stone; You are tired, my heart; you shall be left alone. And even the kisses that my lips must lay Upon the mould of the triumphant clay Shall be so soft--like those a mother lays Upon her sleeping baby's little face-- You will not feel my kisses, will not hear; You are tired: sleep on, I will not wake you, dear! But when the good day comes, you will hear me cry, "Ah, make a little place where I can lie!" And half awakened, you will feel me creep Into the folds of your familiar sleep, And draw them round us, with a tender moan, "How could you let me sleep so long alone?"