A cypress-bough, and a rose-wreath sweet, A wedding-robe, and a winding-sheet, A bridal bed and a bier. Thine be the kisses, maid, And smiling Love’s… - Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Why, Rome was naked once, a bastard smudge,
Tumbled on straw, the denfellow of whelps,
Fattened on roots, and, when a-thirst for milk,
He crept beneath and drank the swagging udder
Of Tyber’s brave she-wolf; and Heaven’s Judea
Was folded in a pannier.

Is it not sweet to die? for, what is death,
But sighing that we ne’er may sigh again,
Getting a length beyond our tedious selves;
But trampling the last tear from poisonous sorrow,
Spilling our woes, crushing our frozen hopes,
And passing like an incense out of man?
Then, if the body felt, what were its sense,
Turning to daisies gently in the grave,
If not the soul’s most delicate delight
When it does filtrate, through the pores of thought,
In love and the enamelled flowers of song?

If thou wilt ease thine heart
Of love and all its smart, Then sleep, dear, sleep;
And not a sorrow Hang any tear on your eyelashes; Lie still and deep, Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes
The rim o’ the sun to-morrow, In eastern sky.But wilt thou cure thine heart
Of love and all its smart, Then die, dear, die;
’Tis deeper, sweeter, Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming With folded eye; And there alone, amid the beaming
Of Love’s stars, thou’lt meet her In eastern sky.