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C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Cold and Quiet

By Jean Ingelow (1820–1897)

COLD, my dear,—cold and quiet.

In their cups on yonder lea,

Cowslips fold the brown bee’s diet;

So the moss enfoldeth thee.

“Plant me, plant me, O love, a lily flower—

Plant at my head, I pray you, a green tree;

And when our children sleep,” she sighed, “at the dusk hour,

And when the lily blossoms, O come out to me!”

Lost, my dear? Lost! nay, deepest

Love is that which loseth least;

Through the night-time while thou sleepest,

Still I watch the shrouded east.

Near thee, near thee, my wife that aye liveth,

“Lost” is no word for such a love as mine;

Love from her past to me a present giveth,

And love itself doth comfort, making pain divine.

Rest, my dear, rest. Fair showeth

That which was, and not in vain

Sacred have I kept, God knoweth,

Love’s last words atween us twain.

“Hold by our past, my only love, my lover;

Fall not, but rise, O love, by loss of me!”

Boughs from our garden, white with bloom hang over.

Love, now the children slumber, I come out to thee.