WERE you but lying cold and dead, <br />And lights were paling out of the West, <br />You would come hither, and bend your head, <br />And I would lay my head on your breast; <br />And you would murmur tender words, <br />Forgiving me, because you were dead: <br />Nor would you rise and hasten away, <br />Though you have the will of the wild birds, <br />But know your hair was bound and wound <br />About the stars and moon and sun: <br />O would, beloved, that you lay <br />Under the dock-leaves in the ground, <br />While lights were paling one by one.<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/he-wishes-his-beloved-were-dead/
