 | Poems |  |
286
SHE'S DEAD!
She's dead—she's dead!
Her night of life is o'er.
No summer murmurs those still lips shall speak;
Sunrise and sunset she shall see no more;
Nor flush nor pallor to that faded cheek
Shall joy or fear for evermore restore;
Thou, Earth, no more shalt throb beneath her tread;
She's dead—she's dead!
Her night of life is o'er.
No summer murmurs those still lips shall speak;
Sunrise and sunset she shall see no more;
Nor flush nor pallor to that faded cheek
Shall joy or fear for evermore restore;
Thou, Earth, no more shalt throb beneath her tread;
She's dead—she's dead!
Thou masker, Death!
Thou art but life disguised;
Still burn the suns though we but gaze on night.
From these poor raiments that her soul despised,
She's passed to holier hours and shadeless light.
Thou wan, dim Earth, she walks in fields more prized;
And ’gainst her shining brows is heaven's own breath;
Thou masker, Death!
Thou art but life disguised;
Still burn the suns though we but gaze on night.
From these poor raiments that her soul despised,
She's passed to holier hours and shadeless light.
Thou wan, dim Earth, she walks in fields more prized;
And ’gainst her shining brows is heaven's own breath;
Thou masker, Death!
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