If I might hold my Delia to my side,
The bare ground were a happier bed
Than theirs who, on a couch of silken pride,
Must mourn for love long dead.
Gilt couch, soft down, slow fountains murmuring song--
These bring no peace. Befooled by words
Was he who, when in love a victor strong,
Left it for spoils and swords.
For such let sad Cilicia's captives bleed,
Her citadels his legions hold!
And let him stride his swift, triumphal steed,
In silvered robes or gold!
These eyes of mine would look on only thee
In that last hour when light shall fail.
Embrace me, dear, in death! Let thy hand be
In my cold fingers pale!
With thine own arms my lifeless body lay
On that cold couch so soon on fire!
Give thy last kisses to my grateful clay,
And weep beside my pyre!
And weep! Ah, me! Thy heart will wear no steel
Nor be stone-cold that rueful day:
Thy faithful grief may all true lovers feel
Nor tearless turn away!
Yet ask I not that thou shouldst vex my shade
With cheek all wan and blighted brow:
But, O, to-day be love's full tribute paid,
While the swift Fates allow.
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