WERE you but lying cold and dead, And lights were paling out of the West

You would come hither, and bend your head,

And I would lay my head on your breast;



W B Yeats

And you would murmur tender words,

Forgiving me, because you were dead:

Nor would you rise and hasten away,

Though you have the will of wild birds,

But know your hair was bound and wound

About the stars and moon and sun:

O would, beloved, that you lay

Under the dock-leaves in the ground,

While lights were paling one by one.