Let us clear a little space,
And make Love a burial-place.
He is dead, dear, as you see,
And he wearies you and me.
Growing heavier, day by day,
Let us bury him, I say.
Wings of dead white butterflies,
These shall shroud him, as he lies
In his casket rich and rare,
Made of finest maiden-hair.
With the pollen of the rose
Let us his white eyelids close.
Put the rose thorn in his hand,
Shorn of leaves — you understand.
Let some holy water fall
On his dead face, tears of gall -
As we kneel to him and say,
“Dreams to dreams,” and turn away.
Those gravediggers, Doubt, Distrust,
They will lower him to the dust.
Let us part here with a kiss -
You go that way, I go this.
Since we buried Love to-day
We will walk a separate way.