Cold, My Dear, - Cold And Quiet. In Their Cups On Yonder Lea, Cowslips Fold The Brown Bee'S Diet; So The Moss Enfoldeth Thee. "Plant Me, Plant Me, O Love, A Lily Flower - Plant At My Head, I Pray You, A Green Tree; And When Our Children Sleep," She Sighed, "At The Dusk Hour, And When The Lily Blossoms, O Come Out To Me!" Lost, My Dear? Lost! Nay Deepest Love Is That Which Loseth Least; Through The Night-Time While Thou Sleepest, Still I Watch The Shrouded East. Near Thee, Near Thee, My Wife That Aye Liveth, "Lost" Is No Word For Such A Love As Mine; Love From Her Past To Me A Present Giveth, And Love Itself Doth Comfort, Making Pain Divine. Rest, My Dear, Rest. Fair Showeth That Which Was, And Not In Vain Sacred Have I Kept, God Knoweth, Love'S Last Words Atween Us Twain. "Hold By Our Past, My Only Love, My Lover; Fall Not, But Rise, O Love, By Loss Of Me!" Boughs From Our Garden, White With Bloom Hang Over. Love, Now The Children Slumber, I Come Out To Thee.