IF I were dead, my friends would come to-day Remembering flowers on my breast to lay; Yes, they would come, but you would stay away— Though you would grieve, I think, you would not come! And those about my bier would weep and tell How grieved they were, how they had loved me well, And how it pained them now to say farewell— But you, yes, to the end you would be dumb! You would not come, I think, lest others see Your grief to see me lie there quietly; You would not whisper, lest they hear, to me, Nor bend to touch my lips there in the gloom. Life has divided us—silent you go, And if you love me, may not tell me so; But I, if I were dead, perhaps might know, And, knowing, lie there happy in that room. But if the dead come back—some say they do— And if you loved me, if I surely knew, Death could not hold me, as life does, from you; I would come back to you, back from the tomb! |