Classic Poem

Make me no vows of constancy, dear friend,
— To love me, though I die, thy whole life long,
And love no other till thy days shall end —
— Nay, it were rash and wrong.

If thou canst love another, be it so;
— I would not reach out of my quiet grave
To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go —
— Love should not be a slave.

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene
— In clearer light than gilds those earthly morns,
Above the jealousies and envies keen,
— Which sow this life with thorns.

Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress;
— If, after death, my soul should linger here;
Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness,
— Love's presence, warm and near.

It would not make me sleep more peacefully
— That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe
For my poor sake; what love thou hast for me,
— Bestow it ere I go.

Carve not upon a stone when I am dead
— The praises which remorseful mourners give
To women's graves — a tardy recompense —
— But speak them while I live.

Heap not the heavy marble o'er my head
— To shut away the sunshine and the dew;
Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses wave,
— And raindrops filter through.

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay
— Than I; but, trust me, thou canst never find
One who will love and serve thee night and day
— With a more single mind.

Forget me when I die! The violets
— Above my breast will blossom just as blue,
Nor miss thy tears; e'ndash nature's self forgets;
— But while I live, be true.