Or, seemed it best for you to go alone
To heaven, as alone I go to hell
Upon the four winds blown.


HER PORTRAIT IMMORTAL

Must I believe this beauty wholly gone
That in her picture here so deathless seems,
And must I henceforth speak of her as one
Tells of some face of legend or of dreams,
Still here and there remembered--scarce believed,
Or held the fancy of a heart bereaved.

So beautiful she--was; ah! "was," say I,
Yet doubt her dead--I did not see her die.
Only by others borne across the sea
Came the incredible wild blasphemy
They called her death--as though it could be true
Of such an immortality as you!

True of these eyes that from her picture gaze,
Serene, star-steadfast, as the heaven's own eyes;
Of that deep bosom, white as hawthorn sprays,
Where my world-weary head forever lies;
True of these quiet hands, so marble-cool,
Still on her lap as lilies on a pool.

Must I believe her dead--that this sweet clay,
That even from her picture breathes perfume,