Women must weep :: :: University of Virginia Library

She was dead, not as men count dying,
Nor in rich voluptuous flesh—
Not in breath that was warmly flying,
From her mouth so superb and fresh—
Not in beautiful, easy motion,
As a sail before wave and wind,
Nor the dew of the dainty notion
From a woman's wondrous mind—
Not in glances of summer lightning,
From those eyes that the unseen read;
Yet in spite of all earthly bright'ning,
She was terribly, truly dead.

She was dead, and they deem'd her living,
And they praised her glorious life,
Like a tree that has fruit for giving,
And unpruned by the gardener's knife;
Lo she thought in herself she had plenty,
Never knew that the pulse had gone
From the graces that told but twenty,
As she went machine-like on;
For she dream'd not how deep and deadly
Was the wound which none could save,
Yet had died, though the rose shone redly,
As if grass were upon her grave.

She was dead—not in outward splendour,
But in woman's sublimer part,
If her face remain'd quick and tender,
While the ashes were in her heart;
And the spirit, that should have pointed
To the marvellous throne of God,
With its heavenly birth anointed,
Yet abode in the mire she trod;
And the blossoms and magic moulding,
In their colour and perfume spread,
Hid the worm in their delicate folding,
And her soul was too surely dead.

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But she came to the Golden City,
Which has freedom for corpse and slave,
And the angel-eyes in their pity
Look'd down on that lovely grave;
For they saw she was dead, and speeding
To the dolorous doom of sin,
In her ignorant pride unheeding,
And in mercy they drew her in;
Ah! she found a more lofty station,
In the dust where the mourners lie,
And the walls that are Christ's salvation.
Shut her in, who shall never die.