Louise Chandler Moulton (1835–1908)

SO Love is dead that has been quick so long!

Close, then, his eyes, and bear him to his rest,

With eglantine and myrtle on his breast,

And leave him there, their pleasant scents among;

And chant a sweet and melancholy song

About the charms whereof he was possessed,

And how of all things he was loveliest,

And to compare with aught were him to wrong.

Leave him beneath the still and solemn stars,

That gather and look down from their far place

With their long calm our brief woes to deride,

Until the Sun the Morning’s gate unbars

And mocks, in turn, our sorrows with his face;—

And yet, had Love been Love, he had not died.