Keen

Weep him dead and mourn as you may,

Me, I sing as I must:

Blessèd be Death, that cuts in marble

What would have sunk to dust!

Blessèd be Death, that took my love

And buried him in the sea,

Where never a lie nor a bitter word

Will out of his mouth at me.

This I have to hold to my heart,

This to take by the hand:

Sweet we were for a summer month

As the sun on the dry white sand;

Mild we were for a summer month

As the wind from over the weirs.

And blessèd be Death, that hushed with salt

The harsh and slovenly years!

Who builds her a house with love for timber

Builds her a house of foam.

And I'd liefer be bride to a lad gone down

Than widow to one safe home.