I often think, were I to die, dear, To sleep, to feel, to pray there in that Realm, So far away, Some thrill of tender sympathy, We had had, or dreamed, or known, or loved, We two alone, Would startle, then recarry me From Exile back to Life again. I often think, were I in my grave, dear, Beneath the forest deep or vine-clad walls, Thine eyes in grief Would drop seeds of such sweet sorrow That my heart would rise—break into a rose, And recognize Thy tears of Love upon its petals, As the richest jewels from Paradise. |