University of Virginia Library

Now put the waxen candle by,
Or shade the light away,
And tell me if you think she'll die
Before another day.
She asked me but an hour ago,
What time the moon would rise,
And when I told her, she replied,
“How fair 't will make the skies.”
Then came a smile across her face,
And though her lips were dumb
I think she only wished to live
Until that hour were come.
And folding her transparent hands
Together on her breast,
She fell in such a tranquil sleep
As scarce seems breathing rest.
Was that the third stroke of the clock?
The hour is almost told.—
Above yon bare and jagged rock
Should shine the disk of gold.
The moon is coming up—a glow
Runs faint along the blue,
How soft her sleep is! shall I call,
That she may see it too?
Nay, friend, she would not see the light,
Though called you ne'er so loud,
So bring of linen, dainty white,
The measure of the shroud.
The drowsy sexton may not wake,
He must be called betimes,
'T will take him all the day to make
Her grave beneath the limes;
For when our little Ellie died,
The days were, oh, so long!
And what with telling ghostly tales,
And humming scraps of song,
To school-boys gathered curiously
About the bed so chill,
I heard him digging till the sun
Was down behind the hill.

Oh, do not weep my friend, I pray,
This rest so still and deep
Keeps all the evil things away
That troubled once her sleep.