Face In The Tomb, That Lies So Still, May I Draw Near, And Watch Your Sleep And Love You, Without Word Or Tear. You Smile, Your Eyelids Flicker; Shall I Tell How The World Goes That Lost You? Shall I Tell? Ah! Love, Lift Not Your Eyelids; 'Tis The Same Old Story That We Laughed At, - Still The Same. We Knew It, You And I, We Knew It All: Still Is The Small The Great, The Great The Small; Still The Cold Lie Quenches The Flaming Truth, And Still Embattled Age Wars Against Youth. Yet I Believe Still In The Ever-Living God That Fills Your Grave With Perfume, Writing Your Name In Violets Across The Sod, Shielding Your Holy Face From Hail And Snow; And, Though The Withered Stay, The Lovely Go, No Transitory Wrong Or Wrath Of Things Shatters The Faith - That Each Slow Minute Brings That Meadow Nearer To Us Where Your Feet Shall Flicker Near Me Like White Butterflies - That Meadow Where Immortal Lovers Meet, Gazing For Ever In Immortal Eyes.