Classic Poem

When the eye hardly sees,
And the pulse hardly stirs,
And the heart would scarcely quicken
Though the voice were hers:
Then the longing wasting fever
Will be almost past;
Sleep indeed come back again,
And peace at last.

Not till then, dear friends,
Not till then, most like, most dear,
The dove will fold its wings
To settle here.
Then to all her coldness
I also shall be cold,
Then I also have forgotten
Our happy love of old.

Close mine eyes with care,
Cross my hands upon my breast,
Let shadows and full silence
Tell of rest:
For she yet may look upon me
Too proud to speak, but know
One heart less loves her in the world
Than loved her long ago.

Strew flowers upon the bed
And flowers upon the floor,
Let all be sweet and comely
When she stands at the door:
Fair as a bridal chamber
For her to come into,
When the sunny day is over
At falling of the dew.

If she comes, watch her not
But careless turn aside;
She may weep if left alone
With her beauty and her pride:
She may pluck a leaf perhaps
Or a languid violet
When life and love are finished
And even I forget.