Thomas Stephens Collier (1842–1893)

IF I must lie asleep with Death at last,—

Death, that stern monarch of supreme desire,

Who, when he sees aught that would fain aspire

To better things, sends his swift-chilling blast,

And lo, a silence on its hope is cast,

And only embers mark where once was fire,—

I pray that fate will build my funeral pyre

Amid some mighty ruin of the past.

There let me sleep, where centuries ago

Was love, and mirth, and kisses sweet as wine,

And blooms whose ashes have a fragrant breath;

For then, perchance, my soul will commune know

With one who saw the primal sunlight shine

Before the world had known the cold of death.