Come to me in the silence of the night;Come in the speaking silence of a dream;Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as brightAs sunlight on a stream;Come back in tears,O memory, hope, love of finished years.O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;Where thirsting longing eyesWatch the slow doorThat opening, letting in, lets out no more.Yet come to me in dreams, that I may liveMy very life again though cold in death:Come back to me in dreams, that I may givePulse for pulse, breath for breath:Speak low, lean lowAs long ago, my love, how long ago
Song by Christina Rossetti
When I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.
Remember by Christina Rossetti
Remember me when I am gone away,Gone far away into the silent land;When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by dayYou tell me of our future that you plann'd:Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.
Dream Land by Christina Rossetti
Where sunless rivers weepTheir waves into the deep,She sleeps a charmed sleep:Awake her not.Led by a single star,She came from very farTo seek where shadows areHer pleasant lot.She left the rosy morn,She left the fields of corn,For twilight cold and lornAnd water springs.Through sleep, as through a veil,She sees the sky look pale,And hears the nightingaleThat sadly sings.Rest, rest, a perfect restShed over brow and breast;Her face is toward the west,The purple land.She cannot see the grainRipening on hill and plain;She cannot feel the rainUpon her hand.Rest, rest, for evermoreUpon a mossy shore;Rest, rest at the heart's coreTill time shall cease:Sleep that no pain shall wake;Night that no morn shall breakTill joy shall overtakeHer perfect peace.