 | Poems by John Howard Bryant |  |
[III. Friends weep around, believing she is dead]
Friends weep around, believing she is dead.'Tis but a trance—a syncope—no more.
The soul, the vital part, awhile has fled,
And treads enraptured the celestial floor.
For now a rustling sound is in the room;
Dim shadows pass the threshold and depart;
The light of hope dispels the funeral gloom,
And joy returns to many a sorrowing heart.
For look! her eyelids tremble, and a tear
Glides o'er the enamel of that stainless cheek;
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That, quivering, part as if about speak.
Her soft eyes open with a cry of pain,
And Dorcas sits among her friends again.
| Poems by John Howard Bryant | |