 | The Death-Wake |  |
66
The ladye, till the minstrel winds came o'er
Its moisten'd strings, and tuned them with a sigh.
“I hear thee, how thy spirit goeth by,
In music and in love. Oh Agathè!
Thou sleepest long, long, long; and they will say
That seek thee,—‘She is dead—she is no more!’
But thou art cold, and I will throw before
Thy chilly brow the pale and snowy sheet.”
And he did lift it from her marble feet,
The sea-wet shroud! and flung it silently
Over her brow—the brow of Agathè!
| The Death-Wake | |