matt's poetry pocketbook:
poems and poets


Oscar Wilde

Tread lightly, she is near
   Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
   The daises grow.

All her bright golden hair
   Tarnished with rust
She that was young and fair
   Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,
   She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
   Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,
   Lie on her breast;
I vex my heart alone,
   She is at rest.

Peace, peace; she cannot hear
   Lyre or sonnet;
All my life's buried here,
   Heap earth upon it.