Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828–1882)

‘THOU Ghost,’ I said, ‘and is thy name To-day?—

Yesterday’s son, with such an abject brow!—

And can To-morrow be more pale than thou?’

While yet I spoke, the silence answered: ‘Yea,

Henceforth our issue is all grieved and grey,

And each beforehand makes such poor avow

As of old leaves beneath the budding bough

Or night-drift that the sundawn shreds away.’

Then cried I: ‘Mother of many malisons,

O Earth, receive me to thy dusty bed!’

But therewithal the tremulous silence said:

‘Lo! Love yet bids thy lady greet thee once:—

Yea, twice,—whereby thy life is still the sun’s;

And thrice,—whereby the shadow of death is dead.’