Classic Poem

Cold, untender eyes, calm and steady,
Lips with chill replies always ready,
Wear your mask, forsooth; but a while hence
Time shall wring the truth from your silence;
You will clasp the mound piled above me,
Owning then, tear-drowned, that you love me!

You will seek me yet, undissembling,
With your proud eyes wet, and lips trembling,
And forbearing so to misdoubt me,
Make white roses blow all about me;
Shall I feel them sigh sweet above me?
Tell me, ere I die, that you love me!

When I turn my face from all weeping,
You will haunt the place of my sleeping,
And, no longer fain then to grieve me,
Wail remorseful pain. Ah, believe me!
Then your bitterest cry cannot move me.
Tell me, ere I die, that you love me!
Lips forever still will not bless you;
Cold hands will not thrill to caress you;
Dead ears will not list vow or pleading;
Eyes too seldom kissed sleep unheeding;
Prayers cannot again lift their lashes;
Love entreats in vain dust and ashes!