Francis Thompson (1859–1907)

WHAT shall I your true-love tell,

Earth-forsaking maid?

What shall I your true-love tell,

When life’s spectre ’s laid?

‘Tell him that, our side the grave,

Maid may not conceive

Life should be so sad to have,

That ’s so sad to leave!’

What shall I your true-love tell,

When I come to him?

What shall I your true-love tell—

Eyes growing dim!

‘Tell him this, when you shall part

From a maiden pined;

That I see him with my heart,

Now my eyes are blind.’

What shall I your true-love tell?

Speaking-while is scant.

What shall I your true-love tell,

Death’s white postulant?

‘Tell him—love, with speech at strife,

For last utterance saith:

I, who loved with all my life,

Love with all my death.’