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.