By female voicesWe have bathed, where none have seen us, In the lake and in the fountain, Underneath the charmèd statue Of the timid, bending Venus, … - Thomas Lovell Beddoes

I’ll take that fainting rose
Out of his breast; perhaps some sigh of his
Lives in the gyre of its kiss-coloured leaves.
O pretty rose, hast thou thy flowery passions?
Then put thyself into a scented rage,
And breathe on me some poisonous revenge.
For it was I, thou languid, silken blush,
Who orphaned thy green family of thee,
In their closed infancy: therefore receive
My life, and spread it on thy shrunken petals,
And give to me thy pink, reclining death.

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?

The swallow leaves her nest,
The soul my weary breast;
But therefore let the rain On my grave
Fall pure; for why complain?
Since both will come again O’er the wave.The wind dead leaves and snow
Doth hurry to and fro;
And, once, a day shall break O’er the wave,
When a storm of ghosts shall shake
The dead, until they wake In the grave.