Over your dear, dead heart I’ll lift,
As lightly as a bough,
Saying, “Here lies the false, high song,
Cruelly quiet now.”
I’ll say, “Here lies the lying sword,
Still dripping with my truth;
Here lies the lovely sheath I made,
Embroidered with my youth.”
I’ll sing, “Here lies, here lies, here lies!”
— Ah, rust in peace below! —
Passers will wonder at my words,
But your dark dust will know.
Copyright © 1922 by Leonora Speyer. This poem was first printed in The North American Review (October 1922). This poem is in the public domain.