Oscar Wilde (1854–1900)

TREAD lightly, she is near

Under the snow,

Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair

Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair

Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew

She was a woman, so

Sweetly she grew.

Coffin board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone,

SHE is at rest.

Peace, peace, she cannot hear

Lyre or sonnet,

All my life ’s buried here,

Heap earth upon it.