Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
Andrew Macphail, comp.  The Book of Sorrow.  1916.
XXIX. The Happy Dead
By Oscar Wilde (1854–1900)
TREAD lightly, she is near
  Under the snow.
Speak gently, she can hear
  The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair        5
  Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
  Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,
  She hardly knew        10
She was a woman, so
  Sweetly she grew.
Coffin board, heavy stone,
  Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,        15
  She is at rest.
Peace, peace, she cannot hear
  Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
  Heap earth upon it.        20

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