MY fear beyond the door has sped. (Art thou dead?) Thou wilt rise up with shining head, Lips pouting red, With snow-white lilies at thy breast, Perchance heart-wrung, distressed, With sorrows welling in thine eyes, Thy wayward tresses redolent of smiles and sighs, Lifting thy heart, Where joy and fear together smart And Love keeps watch apart. Art thou dead? The open door shall quench my dread . . . I need thee; thou must not be dead. Ah, I shall find thee, whom I vowed to wed, There secreted. No dirge shall moan for thee. Thy bosom's snow I fain would see Incarnadined with love for me. I ache to foot the lovers' way, O Dearest, howsoever dull the day Of Paris vast and grey, Our Paris palpitating warm, Encircling so thy slender form, E'en as, Alas! We two were wont to walk in May. I'll enter, even as I said . . . Nay, for it may be thou @3art@1 dead! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MOTHER'S HOPE by SAMUEL LAMAN BLANCHARD THE SWAMP ANGEL by HERMAN MELVILLE THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE by ROBERT SOUTHEY |