To a Lily

By George Sterling

Thou livest yet! Then few the days,
    Altho' they seem not few,
Since here we watched, on garden ways,
    Thy pure and moonlit dew.

She bent thy pallor to caress,
    As snow that toucheth snow;
Thou couldst not know her gentleness,
    Tho' angels now may know.

She spoke of all that Love might dream,
    And dreaming, know divine;
Till on her face I saw the gleam
    Of holier dews than thine.

She spoke of God, of Change, of Death;
    Blinded, I could not tell
Why grief so trembled on her breath:
    'Twas thus she spoke farewell!

Farewell —tho' yet her soul bereaved,
    In mercy unconfessed
Forbore to tell a heart ungrieved
How soon her own would rest.

Here in the silence, I at last
    Render (too late? unheard?)
Mine own farewell, ah! deeply past
    All tale of tear or word.

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