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? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NO EXEMPTION FOR TOURISTS by KAREN SWENSON CRADLE SONG (TO A TUNE OF BLAKE'S): 1 by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER AT SABBATH DOWN by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON CONTRABAND by AVENELLE WILMETH BLAIR WEIRD FANTASY by IDA MAY BORNCAMP AURORA LEIGH: BOOK 5 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING CROMWELL'S REFLECTIONS ON 'KILLING NO MURDER' by EDWARD GEORGE EARLE LYTTON BULWER-LYTTON |