I cannot look upon thy grave, Though there the rose is sweet: Better to hear the long wave wash These wastes about my feet!
Shall I take comfort? Dost thou live A spirit, though afar, With a deep hush about thee, like The stillness round a star?
Oh, thou art cold! In that high sphere Thou art a thing apart, Losing in saner happiness This madness of the heart.
And yet, at times, thou still shalt feel A passing breath, a pain; Disturb’d, as though a door in heaven Had sped and closed again.
And thou shalt shiver, while the hymns The solemn hymns, shall cease; A moment half remember me: Then turn away in peace.
But oh! forevermore thy look, Thy laugh, thy charm, thy tone, Thy sweet and wayward loveliness, Dear trivial things are gone!
Therefore I look not on thy grave, Though there the rose is sweet; But rather hear the loud wave wash These wastes about my feet.
Prince of painters, come, I pray, Paint my love, for, though away, King of craftsmen, you can well Paint what I to thee can tell. First her hair you must indite Dark, but soft as summer night; Hast thou no contrivance whence To make it breathe its frankincense? Rising from her rounded cheek Let thy pencil duly speak, How below that purpling night Glows her forehead ivory-white. Mind you neither part nor join Those sweet eyebrows’ easy line; They must merge, you know, to be In separated unity. Painter draw, as lover bids, Now the dark line of the lids; Painter, now ’tis my desire, Make her glance from very fire, Make it as Athene’s blue, Like Cythera’s liquid too; Now to give her cheeks and nose, Milk must mingle with the rose; Her lips be like persuasion’s made, To call for kisses they persuade; And for her delicious chin, O’er and under and within, And round her soft neck’s Parian wall, Bid fly the graces, one and all. For the rest, enrobe my pet In her faint clear violet; But a little truth must show There is more that lies below, Hold! thou hast her--that is she. Hush! she ’s going to speak to me.
Not now, but later, when the road We tread together breaks apart, When thou, my dearest, distant art, And tedious days have swelled the load Upon my heart.
Or haply after that, when I Am sealed within an earthy bed, Resting and unrememberèd, This scene will speak and easily The whole be said.