William Blake (1757–1827).
My silks and fine array,
My smiles and languish’d air,
By love are driv’n away;
And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave;
Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heav’n
When springing buds unfold;
O why to him was ’t giv’n
Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is love’s all-worshipp’d tomb,
Where all love’s pilgrims come.
Bring me an axe and spade,
Bring me a winding-sheet;
When I my grave have made
Let winds and tempests beat:
Then down I’ll lie as cold as clay.
True love doth pass away!
