Les Morts Vont Vite

Les morts vont vite! Ay, for a little space We miss and mourn them fallen from their place; To take our portion in their rest are fain; But by-and-by, having wept, press on again, Perchance to win their laurels in the race. What man would find the old in the new love’s face? Seek on the fresher lips the old kisses’ trace? For withered roses newer blooms disdain? Les morts vont vite! But when disease brings thee in piteous case, Thou shalt thy dead recall, and thy ill grace To them for whom remembrance plead in vain. Then, shuddering, think, while thy bedfellow Pain Clasps thee with arms that cling like Death’s embrace: Les morts vont vite!

Collection: 
English
Henry Cuyler Bunner

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