This fair woman who is dead
(Sung so sweet of long ago)
Lies not in a mortal bed -
Song has made her couch to grow
With all sweet things, as they stir
Like unfading growths that cling
In an everlasting spring
Round her Poet's dream of her.
Time is dead - she has not died!
All the light of beauty stays,
As if the sweet lips replied
To whate'er her lover says
O'er the tomb to her, as he
Fingers her undying hair:
Such is death when Love is there,
Love that lives in poesy.