 | The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley |  |
539
AFTER DEATH
A FANCY
Ah! this delights me more than words could tell,—
To just lie stark and still, with folded hands
That tremble not at greeting or farewell,
Nor fumble foolishly in loosened strands
Of woman's hair, nor grip with jealousy
To find her face turned elsewhere smilingly.
To just lie stark and still, with folded hands
That tremble not at greeting or farewell,
Nor fumble foolishly in loosened strands
Of woman's hair, nor grip with jealousy
To find her face turned elsewhere smilingly.
With slumbrous lids, and mouth in mute repose,
And lips that yearn no more for any kiss—
Though it might drip, as from the red-lipped rose
The dewdrop drips, 'twere not so sweet as this
Unutterable density of rest
That reigns in every vein of brain and breast!
And lips that yearn no more for any kiss—
Though it might drip, as from the red-lipped rose
The dewdrop drips, 'twere not so sweet as this
Unutterable density of rest
That reigns in every vein of brain and breast!
And thus—soaked with still laughter through and through—
I lie here dreaming of the forms that pass
Above my grave, to drop, with tears, a few
White flowers that but curdle the green grass;—
And if they read such sermons, they could see
How I do pity them that pity me.
I lie here dreaming of the forms that pass
Above my grave, to drop, with tears, a few
White flowers that but curdle the green grass;—
And if they read such sermons, they could see
How I do pity them that pity me.
| The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley | |