From The Antique

The wind shall lull us yet,
The flowers shall spring above us:
And those who hate forget,
And those forgot who love us.

The pulse of hope shall cease,
Of joy and of regretting:
We twain shall sleep in peace,
Forgotten and forgetting.

For us no sun shall rise,
Nor wind rejoice, nor river,
Where we with fast-closed eyes
Shall sleep and sleep for ever.