Lo, we who love weep not to-day,

But crown her royal head. Let be these poppies that we strew,

Your roses are too red : Let be these poppies, not for you

Cut down and spread.

780. A Birthday

TVTY heart is like a singing bird

IV1 Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;

My heart is like an apple-tree

Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit ; My heart is like a rainbow shell

That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these,

Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down ;

Hang it with vair and purple dyes ; Carve it in doves and pomegranates,

And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes,

In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys ; Because the birthday of my life

Is come, my love is come to me.

781. Song

YVTHEN I am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me ; Plant thou no roses at my head.

Nor shady cypress tree :

�� �