Thank God, your memory's voice grows fainter, her face pale, She haunts my sight no more along the misty ways; Yet should young wandering joys beckon to me, she lays Across the face of every joy a mournful veil. I would but dance a measure lightly, and pass by, I would but lay my head a moment on some breast; But as I reach out piteous hands for hope or rest She glides between, and keen desire and sweet dreams die. Her hands are cold as death, and death is in her eyes, Chilled by the breath that kills the life in me she seems. Her heart is dead that was a heart of many dreams, My heart is dead that was a heart of many sighs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ONE AT PLAY IN THE FIELDS OF by KAREN SWENSON BANTAMS IN PINE-WOODS by WALLACE STEVENS THE HYMNARY: 403. MARTYRS by ADAM OF SAINT VICTOR ON THE STATUE OF AN ANGEL, BY BIENAIME by WASHINGTON ALLSTON |