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.

—Oscar Wilde

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