by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Let us clear a little space,
And make Love a burial-place.
He is dead, dear, as you see,
And he wearies you and me.
Growing heavier, day by day,
Let us bury him, I say.
Wings of dead white butterflies,
These shall shroud him, as he lies
In his casket rich and rare,
Made of finest maiden-hair.
With the pollen of the rose
Let us his white eyelids close.
Put the rose thorn in his hand,
Shorn of leaves—you understand.
Let some holy water fall
On his dead face, tears of gall—
As we kneel to him and say,
“Dreams to dreams,” and turn away.
Those gravediggers, Doubt, Distrust,
They will lower him to the dust.
Let us part here with a kiss—
You go that way, I go this.
Since we buried Love to-day
We will walk a separate way.
- by Ella Wheeler Wilcox