Six Sorrow Songs

Oh what comes over the sea,
  Shoals and quicksands past;
And what comes home to me,
  Sailing slow, sailing fast?

A wind comes over the sea
  With a moan in its blast;
But nothing comes home to me,
  Sailing slow, sailing fast.

Let me be, let me be,
  For my lot is cast:
Land or sea all's one to me,
  And sail it slow or fast.

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 dewdrops 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 nor set,
Haply I may remember,
  And haply may forget.

O roses for the [flush] 1of youth, 
  And laurel for the perfect prime; 
But pluck an ivy branch for me 
  Grown old before my time. 

O violets for the grave of youth, 
  And bay for those dead in their prime; 
Give me the withered leaves I chose 
  Before in the old time.

She sat and sang alway
By the green margin of a stream,
Watching the fishes leap and play
Beneath the glad sunbeam.

I sat and wept alway
Beneath the moon's most shadowy beam,
Watching the blossoms of the May
Weep leaves into the stream.

I wept for memory;
She sang for hope that is so fair:
My tears were swallowed by the sea;
Her songs died on the air.

Unmindful of the roses,
Unmindful of the thorn,
A reaper tired reposes
Among his gathered corn:
So might I, till the morn!

Cold as the cold Decembers,
Past as the days that set,
While only one remembers
And all the rest forget, --
But one remembers yet.

'Too late for love, too late for joy,
 Too late, too late!
You loitered on the way 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,
e'en 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 leaped,
 The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
 To melt the snow.

 ... 

'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.'