text: 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;
  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.