And pale—ay, pale as Hades' death-crowned queen,
Across the fatal barriers between,
Her glad look seemed to say:—"At last, I know!
You, who alone have loved me, could not go!
"All help were vain. Stay!—let me see your face!"
So plead the look; then, with a poignant grace,
Her form bent toward me, her white arms apart,
She gave me the veiled secret of her heart.
Think you we marked the fiery sepulchre
In which we stood,—thence nevermore to stir?
A glory strange enwrapt us. Then, my friend,
I woke, and saw your face, and knew the end,—
Not that which you suppose—the end of strife,
Not dissolution—and not loss—but life!
I think she felt no anguish, knew no fear,
So mercifully swift the flames drew near;
For, even as she smiled, narcotic death
Enveloped her and stifled her sweet breath;