Raise me a dais of silk and down;

Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,

And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,

In leaves and silver fleur-de-lys:
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.

SONG

WHEN I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:

Be the green grass above me

With showers and dew-drops wet;

And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain;

And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise or set,

Haply I may remember,

And haply may forget.

REMEMBER

REMEMBER me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you plann'd:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

"TOO LATE! TOO LATE!'

From "The Prince's Progress"

Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!

You loitered on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate;

The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate;

The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.

Ten years ago, five years ago,

One year ago,

Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;

Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leap'd,
The buds gone on to blow,

The warm southwind would have awaked
To melt the snow.

Is she fair now as she lies?

Once she was fair;

Meet queen for any knightly king,

With gold-dust on her hair.

Now these are poppies in her locks,

White poppies she must wear ;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face

And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?

We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;

Her bed seem'd never soft to her,
Though toss'd of down;

She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;

We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,

Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks
That used to be so brown.

We never heard her speak in haste:
Her tones were sweet,

And modulated just so much

As it was meet.

Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet,

There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.

You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:

But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?

Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread.

SIDNEY LANIER1

(1842-1881)

NIGHT AND DAY

THE innocent, sweet Day is dead.

Dark Night hath slain her in her bed.

1 From "Poems of Sidney Lanier." Copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. i anier. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

O, Moors are as fierce to kill as to wed!

A sweeter light than ever rayed
From star of heaven or eye of maid
Has vanished in the unknown Shade.
- She's dead, she 's dead, said he.

Now, in a wild, sad after-mood
The tawny Night sits still to brood
Upon the dawn-time when he wooed.
- I would she lived, said he.

Star-memories of happier times,
Of loving deeds and lovers' rhymes,
Throng forth in silvery pantomimes.
Come back, O Day! said he.

SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE
OUT of the hills of Habersham,
Down the valleys of Hall,

I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall,
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover's pain to attain the plain

Far from the hills of Habersham,
Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham,
All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried, Abide, abide!
The wilful waterweeds held me thrall,
The laving laurel turned my tide,
The ferns and the fondling grass said

Stay,

The dewberry dipped for to work delay, And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide, Here in the hills of Habersham, Here in the valleys of Hall.

High o'er the hills of Habersham,
Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold

Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold

Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
These glades in the valleys of Hall.

And oft in the hills of Habersham,
And oft in the valleys of Hall,

The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,

And many a luminous jewel lone

Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,

Ruby, garnet, and amethyst

Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
And oh, not the valleys of Hall

Avail: I am fain for to water the plain,
Downward the voices of Duty call

Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,

And the lordly main from beyond the plain

Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,

Calls through the valleys of Hall.

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

(1849-1903)

INVICTUS

OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from Pole to Pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.