No man that draweth breath
    Is in such happy case: 
  My heart to itself saith—­
    Though kings gaze on her face,
    I would not change my place;
  To lie here is more sweet,
  Here at her feet.

  As one in a green land
    Beneath a rose-bush lies,
  Two petals in his hand,
    With shut and dreaming eyes,
  And hears the rustling stir,
    As the young morning goes,
  Shaking abroad the myrrh
    Of each awakened rose;
  So to me lying there
  Comes the soft breath of her,—­
  O cruel sweet!—­
  There at her feet.

  O little careless feet
  That scornful tread
  Upon my dreaming head,
  As little as the rose
  Of him who lies there knows
  Nor of what dreams may be
  Beneath your feet;
  Know you of me,
  Ah! dreams of your fair head,
  Its golden treasure spread,
  And all your moonlit snows,
  Yea! all your beauty’s rose
  That blooms to-day so fair
  And smells so sweet—­
  Shoulders of ivory,
  And breasts of myrrh—­
  Under my feet.

  Reliquiae

  This is all that is left—­this letter and this rose! 
  And do you, poor dreaming things, for a moment suppose
  That your little fire shall burn for ever and ever on,
  And this great fire be, all but these ashes, gone?

  Flower! of course she is—­but is she the only flower? 
  She must vanish like all the rest at the funeral hour,
  And you that love her with brag of your all-conquering thew,
  What, in the eyes of the gods, tall though you be, are you?

  You and she are no more—­yea! a little less than we;
  And what is left of our loving is little enough to see;
  Sweet the relics thereof—­a rose, a letter, a glove—­
  That in the end is all that remains of the mightiest love.

  Six-foot two! what of that? for Death is taller than he;
  And, every moment, Death gathers flowers as fair as she;
  And nothing you two can do, or plan or purpose or dream,
  But will go the way of the wind and go the way of the stream.

  Love’s proud farewell

  I am too proud of loving thee, too proud
    Of the sweet months and years that now have end,
      To feign a heart indifferent to this loss,
  Too thankful-happy that the gods allowed
      Our orbits cross,
    Beloved and lovely friend;
    And though I wend
  Lonely henceforth along a road grown gray,
  I shall not be all lonely on the way,
  Companioned with the attar of thy rose,
  Though in my garden it no longer blows.

  Thou canst not give elsewhere thy gifts to me,
    Or only seem to give;
    Yea, not so fugitive
  The glory that hath hallowed me and thee,
  Not thou or I alone that marvel wrought
  Immortal is the paradise of thought,
    Nor ours to destroy,
  Born of our hearts together, where bright streams
    Ran through the woods for joy,
  That heaven of our dreams.