Love’s Bier
If Love in all the world lay dead,
Lay dead and still and cold,
With candles burning at his head,
With pall draped fold on fold
About the rigid baby form,
When next spring came—ah, then
I know Love would grow quick and warm,
And come to life again.
If Love were dead, and maids knew not
The meaning of his name,
And wooded hill and shaded grot
Knew nothing of his glame,
And youths and maids should wander down
In spring through any scene,
Then Love, from eyes of blue and brown,
Would leap and walk between.
If Love lay dead upon his bier,
And from his swelling throat,
Full low and sweet, and far and clear,
A mockbird trilled a note,
Then Love would stir beneath his pall
And rise to catch the song;
And stretch and yawn to hear the call,
And say, “I’ve slept too long!”
And the dead wreaths about his bier
Would spring to sudden bloom,
And dew-droops, born from every tear,
Would wake a sweet perfume;
And men and maids, who came in bands,
The death of Love to weep,
Would smile, and, hands close clasped in hands,
Would say, “Love did but sleep!”