Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love,
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Halloo your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out “Olivia!” O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth
But you should pity me.
—William Shakespeare (1564–1616)
the sheets and towels of a life we were going to share,
The milk-stiff bibs, the shroud, each rag to be ever
Trampled or soiled, bled on or groped for blindly,
Came swooning out of an enormous willow hamper
Onto moon-marbly boards.
—James Merrill (b. 1926)
Lay a garland on my hearse,
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say I died true.
—Francis Beaumont (1584-1616)