 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
119
SLEEPING
Hushed within her quiet bed
She is lying all the night,
In her pallid robes of white,
Eyelids on the pure eyes pressed,
Soft hands folded on the breast,—
And you thought I meant it—dead?
She is lying all the night,
In her pallid robes of white,
Eyelids on the pure eyes pressed,
Soft hands folded on the breast,—
And you thought I meant it—dead?
Nay! I smile at your shocked face:
In the morning she will wake,
Turn her dreams to sport, and make
All the household glad and gay,
Yet for many a merry day,
With her beauty and her grace.
In the morning she will wake,
Turn her dreams to sport, and make
All the household glad and gay,
Yet for many a merry day,
With her beauty and her grace.
But some summer 't will be said,—
“She is lying all the night,
In her pallid robes of white,
Eyelids on the tired eyes pressed,
Hands that cross upon the breast:”
We shall understand it—dead!
“She is lying all the night,
In her pallid robes of white,
Eyelids on the tired eyes pressed,
Hands that cross upon the breast:”
We shall understand it—dead!
Yet 't will only be a sleep:
When, with songs and dewy light,
Morning blossoms out of night,
She will open her blue eyes
'Neath the palms of Paradise,
While we foolish ones shall weep.
When, with songs and dewy light,
Morning blossoms out of night,
She will open her blue eyes
'Neath the palms of Paradise,
While we foolish ones shall weep.
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |