Wreathe no more lilies in my hair, For I am dying, Sister sweet: Or if you will for the last time Indeed, why make me fair Once for my windingsheet. Pluck no more roses for my breast, For I like them fade in my prime: Or if you will, why pluck them still That they may share my rest Once more, for the last time. Weep not for me when I am gone, Dear tender one, but hope and smile: Or if you cannot choose but weep A little while, weep on Only a little while. |