I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget. [Decoration] _SONG._ O roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime; But pluck an ivy branch for me Grown old before my time. O violets for the grave of youth, And bay for those dead in their prime; Give me the withered leaves I chose Before in the old time. [Decoration] _SONG._ Two doves upon the selfsame branch, Two lilies on a single stem, Two butterflies upon one flower:-- O happy they who look on them. Who look upon them hand in hand Flushed in the rosy summer light; Who look upon them hand in hand And never give a thought to night. [Decoration] _THREE SEASONS._ "A cup for hope!" she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old: The crimson wine was poor and cold By her mouth's richer red. "A cup for love!" how low, How soft the words; and all the while Her blush was rippling with a smile Like summer after snow. "A cup for memory!" Cold cup that one must drain alone: While autumn winds are up and moan Across the barren sea. Hope, memory, love: Hope for fair morn, and love for day, And memory for the evening gray And solitary dove. [Decoration] DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 1828-1882. _A LITTLE WHILE._ A little while a little love The hour yet bears for thee and me Who have not drawn the veil to see If still our heaven be lit above. Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone; And I have heard the night-wind cry And deemed its speech mine own. A little while a little love The scattering autumn hoards for us Whose bower is not yet ruinous Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. Only across the shaken boughs We hear the flood-tides seek the sea, And deep in both our hearts they rouse One wail for thee and me. A little while a little love May yet be ours who have not said The word it makes our eyes afraid To know that each is thinking of. Not yet the end: be our lips dumb In smiles a little season yet: I 'll tell thee, when the end is come, How we may best forget. [Decoration] _SUDDEN LIGHT._ I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. You have been mine before,-- How long ago I may not know: But just when at that swallow's soar Your neck turned so, Some veil did fall,--I knew it all of yore.