Lethe
A. Mary F. Robinson
1857 to 1944
Come with me to Lethe-lake,
Come, since Love is o'er,
He whose thirst those waters slake,
Thirsteth nevermore.
There the sleepy hemlock grows
In the night-shade ranks,
Crimson poppies rows on rows
Flush its quiet banks.
Drink with me of Lethe-lake
Deep and deeper yet,
Drink with me for dead Love's sake
Drink till we forget.
Since our roses all are dead,
Lost our laurel-boughs,
Let these poppies hang instead
Round our aching brows.
A. Mary F. Robinson's Lethe
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