Oscar Wilde

Requiescat

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

Avignon