Sing me at midnight

I cannot woo thee as the lion his mate,
With proud parade and fierce prestige of presence;
Nor thy fleet fancy may I captivate
With pastoral attitudes in flowery pleasance;
Nor will I kneeling court thee with sedate
And comfortable plans of husbandhood;
Nor file before thee as a candidate...
I cannot woo thee as a lover would.

To wrest thy hand from rivals, iron-gloved,
Or cheat them by craft, I am not clever.
But I do love thee even as Shakespeare loved,
Most gently wild, and desperately for ever,
Full-hearted, grave, and manfully in vain,
With thought, high pain, and ever vaster pain.

Three rompers run together hand in hand. 
The middle boy stops short, the others hurtle: 
What bumps, what shrieks, what laughter turning turtle. 
Love, racing between us two, has planned 
a sudden mischief: shortly he will stand 
And we shall shock. We cannot help but fall; 
what matter? Why, it will not hurt at all, 
Our youth is supple, and the world is sand. 
Better our lips should bruise our eyes, than He, 
Rude Love, outrun our breath; you pant, and I, 
I cannot run much further; mind that we 
both laugh with love; and having tumbled, try 
To go forever children, hand in hand. 
The sea is rising, and the world is sand. 

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
  Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
  Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, --
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
  Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
  The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Between the brown hands of a server-lad 
The silver cross was offered to be kissed. 
The men came up, lugubrious, but not sad, 
And knelt reluctantly, half-prejudiced. 
(And kissing, kissed the emblem of a creed.) 
Then mourning women knelt; meek mouths they had, 
(And kissed the Body of the Christ indeed.) 
Young children came, with eager lips and glad. 
(These kissed a silver doll, immensely bright.) 
Then I, too, knelt before that acolyte. 
Above the crucifix I bent my head: 
The Christ was thin, and cold, and very dead: 
And yet I bowed, yea, kissed -- my lips did cling. 
(I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.)

Sing me at dawn but only with your laugh: 
Like sprightly Spring that laugheth into leaf; 
Like Love, that cannot flute for smiling at Life. 
Sing me at dawn... Sing to me only with your speech all day, 
As voluble leaflets do. Let viols die. 
The least word of your lips is melody. 
Sing me at dusk, but only with your sigh; 
Like lifting seas it solaceth: breathe so, 
All voicelessly, the sense that no songs say. 
Sing me at midnight with your murmurous heart; 
And let its moaning like a chord be heard 
Surging, surging through you and sobbing unsubdued.