At the Last

Come once, just once, dear Love, when I am dead,—
Ah God, I would it were this hour, to-night,—
And look your last upon the frozen face
That was to you a summer's brief delight.

The silent lips will not entreat you then,
Nor the eyes vex you with unwelcome tears:
The low, sad voice will utter no complaint,
Nor the heart tremble with its restless fears.

I shall be still,—you will forgive me then
For all that I have been, or failed to be,—
Say, as you look, "Poor Heart, she loved me well;
Will any other be so true to me?"

Then bend and kiss the lips that will not speak,—
One little kiss for all the dear, dead days,—
Say once, "God rest her soul!" then go in peace,—
No haunting ghost shall meet you in your ways.