When I am dead and over me bright April Shakes out her rain-drenched hair, Though you should lean above me broken-hearted, I shall not care. - Sara Teasdale

Those who love the most
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guenevere,
Dierdre, Iseult, Heloise
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak, if at all,
Of fragile, inconsequent things.
And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in lonely pride,
Never spoke of this thing
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.

Make songs for Death as you would sing to Love — But you will not assuage him. He alone Of all the gods will take no gifts from men.

I am the pool of gold
When sunset burns and dies — You are my deepening skies;
Give me your stars to hold