Fifteen Epitaphs

I laid the strewings, darling, on thine urn; I lowered the torch, I poured the cup to Dis. Now hushaby, my little child, and learn Long sleep how good it is. In vain thy mother prays, wayfaring hence, Peace to her heart, where only heartaches dwell; But thou more blest, O mild intelligence! Forget her, and Farewell.

Gentle Grecian passing by, Father of thy peace am I: Wouldst thou now, in memory, Give a soldier's flower to me, Choose the standard named of yore Beautiful Worth-dying-for, That shall wither not, but wave All the year above my grave.

Light thou hast of the moon, Shade of the dammar-pine, Here on thy hillside bed; Fair befall thee, O fair Lily of womanhood, Patient long, and at last Here on thy hillside bed, Happier: ah, Blæsilla!

Me, deep-tressèd meadows, take to your loyal keeping, Hard by the swish of sickles ever in Aulon sleeping, Philophron, old and tired, and glad to be done with reaping!

Upon thy level tomb, till windy winter morn, The fallen leaves delay; But plain and pure their trace is, when themselves are torn From delicate frost away. As here to transient frost the absent leaf is, such Thou wert and art to me: So on my passing life is thy long-passèd touch, O dear Alcithoë!

Hail, and be of comfort, thou pious Xeno, Late the urn of many a kinsman wreathing; On thine own shall even the stranger offer Plentiful myrtle.

Here lies one in the earth who scarce of the earth was moulded, Wise Æthalides' son, himself no lover of study, Cnopus, asleep, indoors: the young invincible runner. They from the cliff footpath that see on the grave we made him, Tameless, slant in the wind, the bare and beautiful iris, Stop short, full of delight, and cry out: "See, it is Cnopus Runs, with white throat forward, over the sands to Chalcis!"

Ere the Ferryman from the coast of spirits Turn the diligent oar that brought thee thither, Soul, remember: and leave a kiss upon it For thy desolate father, for thy sister, Whichsoever be first to cross hereafter.

Jaffa ended, Cos begun Thee, Aristeus. Thou wert one Fit to trample out the sun: Who shall think thine ardours are But a cinder in a jar?

Two white heads the grasses cover: Dorcas, and her lifelong lover. While they graced their country closes Simply as the brooks and roses, Where was lot so poor, so trodden, But they cheered it of a sudden? Fifty years at home together, Hand in hand, they went elsewhither, Then first leaving hearts behind Comfortless. Be thou as kind.

As wind that wasteth the unmarried rose, And mars the golden breakers in the bay, Hurtful and sweet from heaven for ever blows Sad thought that roughens all our quiet day; And elder poets envy, while they weep, Ion, whom first the gods to covert brought, Here under inland olives laid asleep, Most wise, most happy, having done with thought.

Cows in the narrowing August marshes, Cows in a stretch of water Motionless, Neck on neck overlapped and drooping; These in their troubled and dumb communion, Thou on the steep bank yonder, Pastora! No more ever to lead and love them, No more ever. Thine innocent mourners Pass thy tree in the evening Heavily, Hearing another herd-girl calling.

Go you by with gentle tread. This was Paula, who is dead: Dear grey eyes that had a look Like some rock-o'ershadowed brook, Voice upon the ear to cling Sweeter than the cithern string. With that spirit shy and fair Quietly and unaware Climbing past the starry van Went, for triple talisman, They to whom the heavens must ope: Candour, Chastity, and Hope.

Take from an urn my vow and salutation Unto the land I never now shall see: Laid here exiled, my heart in desolation Frets like a child against her breast to be. Far from the sky, a rose that opes at even (One liquid star for dewdrop on the rose), Far from the shower that nesting low in heaven Thrice in an hour light-wingèd comes and goes, Far from my lost and blessèd and belovèd Nightfall of June beside the Rhodian wave, Mine is the pain another isle to covet, Though all in vain, for gardener of my grave.

Praise thou the Mighty Mother for what is wrought, not me, A nameless nothing-caring head asleep against her knee.