Wind among the Reeds — He Wishes His Beloved Were Dead
| Were you but lying cold and dead, |
| And lights were paling out of the West, |
| You would come hither, and
bend your head, |
| And I would lay my head on your breast; |
| And you would murmur tender words, |
| Forgiving
me, because you were dead: |
| Nor would you rise and hasten away, |
| Though you have the will of the wild
birds, |
| But know your hair was bound and wound |
| About the stars and moon and sun: |
| O would, beloved,
that you lay |
| Under the dock-leaves in the ground, |
| While lights were paling one by one. |