Volume 1 — SONG [163]

Should thy love die; O bury it not under ice-blue eyes! And lips that deny, With a scornful surprise, The life it once lived in thy breast when it wore no disguise.

Should thy love die; O bury it where the sweet wild-flowers blow! And breezes go by, With no whisper of woe; And strange feet cannot guess of the anguish that slumbers below.

Should thy love die; O wander once more to the haunt of the bee! Where the foliaged sky Is most sacred to see, And thy being first felt its wild birth like a wind-wakened tree.

Should thy love die; O dissemble it! smile! let the rose hide the thorn! While the lark sings on high, And no thing looks forlorn, Bury it, bury it, bury it where it was born.