William Blake (1757–1827)

MY silks and fine array,

My smiles and languish’d air,

By love are driv’n away;

And mournful lean Despair

Brings me yew to deck my grave:

Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heav’n

When springing buds unfold;

O why to him was’t giv’n

Whose heart is wintry cold?

His breast is love’s all worship’d tomb,

Where all love’s pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade,

Bring me a winding sheet;

When I my grave have made

Let winds and tempest beat:

Then down I’ll lie as cold as clay.

True love doth pass away!