I tire of lovely faces free from pain
And free from sin;
Here none with lips wet with the crimson stain
May enter in.
One thing I lack, and lacking it, am dead—
A woman’s heart.
“She cannot enter here,” an angel said;
I will depart.
I have one prayer that I will make to God,
That I may stay
Where lies my body underneath the sod.
Then night and day
I shall be where my dear false love may pass;
It will be sweet
To hear above my head, upon the grass,
Her little feet.