And I must rest.—­Yet do not say “She died,”
  In speaking of me, sleeping here alone. 
I kiss the grassy grave I sink beside,
  And close mine eyes in slumber all mine own: 
  Hereafter I shall neither sob nor moan
    Nor murmur one complaint;—­all I desired,
  And failed in life to find, will now be known—­
  So let me dream.  Good night!  And on the stone
      Say simply:  She was tired.

[Illustration:  (An out-worn Sappho—­tailpiece)]

[Illustration:  (The Passing of A heart—­title)]

THE PASSING OF A HEART

O Touch me with your hands—­
                             For pity’s sake! 
My brow throbs ever on with such an ache
As only your cool touch may take away;
And so, I pray
               You, touch me with your hands!

Touch—­touch me with your hands.—­
                         Smooth back the hair
You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair
That I did dream its gold would wear alway,
And lo, to-day—­
                  O touch me with your hands!

Just touch me with your hands,
                           And let them press
My weary eyelids with the old caress,
And lull me till I sleep.  Then go your way,
That Death may say: 
               He touched her with his hands.

[Illustration:  (The Passing of A heart—­tailpiece)]

“Dream”

Because her eyes were far too deep
And holy for a laugh to leap
Across the brink where sorrow tried
To drown within the amber tide;
Because the looks, whose ripples kissed
The trembling lids through tender mist,
Were dazzled with a radiant gleam—­
Because of this I called her “Dream.”

Because the roses growing wild
About her features when she smiled
Were ever dewed with tears that fell
With tenderness ineffable;
Because her lips might spill a kiss
That, dripping in a world like this,
Would tincture death’s myrrh-bitter stream
To sweetness—­so I called her “Dream.”

[Illustration:  ("Dream")]

Because I could not understand
The magic touches of a hand
That seemed, beneath her strange control,
To smooth the plumage of the soul
And calm it, till, with folded wings,
It half forgot its flutterings,
And, nestled in her palm, did seem
To trill a song that called her “Dream.”

Because I saw her, in a sleep
As dark and desolate and deep
And fleeting as the taunting night
That flings a vision of delight
To some lorn martyr as he lies
In slumber ere the day he dies—­
Because she vanished like a gleam
Of glory, do I call her “Dream.”

[Illustration:  ("Dream”—­Tailpiece)]