Chapter VII: An Appeal

Dear, do not die! Of cypresses and grassy graves sing I-- I hang with wreaths of song death's grief-grown cross, And weep, to music, for Life's infinite loss, And make the sweetest verse of bitterest woe, --I know the way because I love you so; But I have written griefs that I have known In other's heart's blood, never in my own. If _you_ died what more could be sung or said? I could not sing of Death if you were dead.

Dear, do not love! Do not love _me_, keep still aloof, above! While you and Love in far-off glory stand Clear sounds the voice, and harp responds to hand. But if you loved me--if you came quite near And set Love 'mid life's common things and dear-- Mute would the voice be, Love would be too fair To waste upon the wide world's empty air, And, songless, I should droop and vainly pine-- I could not sing of Love if you were mine!

_E. Nesbit._