Poetry Archives

Paler, not quite so fair as in her life,
  She lies upon the bed, perfectly still;
  Her little hands clasped with a patient will
Upon her bosom, swelling without strife;
An honoured virgin, a most blameless wife.
  The roses lean upon the window sill,
  That she trained once; their sweets the hot air fill,
And make the death-apartment odour-rife.
Her meek white hands folded upon her breast,
  Her gentle eyes closed in the long last sleep,
She lieth down in her unbroken rest;
  Her kin, kneeling around, a vigil keep,
Venting their grief in low sobs unrepressed:—
  Friends, she but slumbers, wherefore do ye weep?