Thy golden hair is left - its silky mesh The spoiler shall not mar, whater'er he takes; Nor that still-brilliant eye, that sleeps and wakes Among the flowing sores: but thy fair flesh, All-confluent now, and molten by disease, Must keep the stamp which this sick fortnight gave Even till that latest fusion in the grave Runs off our ingrained evils; but for these Sweet relics of thyself, and what thou wert A brief moon since, I should be half afraid That Love might shrink, and merry Hymen flirt His robe at thy lost hopes, my little maid! Thou smilest! Ah! I see no power can hurt The fortunes or the loves of Alice Wade! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LINES WRITTEN BY A DEATH-BED by MATTHEW ARNOLD GYPSY-HEART by KATHARINE LEE BATES THE POET'S WIFE by JESSICA BELL PRELUDE TO THE NANTAHALAS by BARBARA BOWEN VISION by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES TANNHAUSER; OR, THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |