And her loosened long black hair
Is sweeping darkly round her,
As if it were the solemn pall
That already bound her.
But the sweet pale mouth was calm,
And the eyes were meekly closing,
And upon the marble cheek
Was the silken lash reposing;
Softly as a little child
Sleeps on its mother's bosom,
Sweetly as a tender flower
Closes its languid blossom.
There were eyes, unused to weep,
Around her dim with weeping;
Yet death seemed not for tears,
'Twas so like sweetest sleeping.
Not beneath the deep sea waves,
Vexed with perpetual motion,
Neither in the sparry caves
Of the tumultuous ocean,
Did that youthful maiden rest—
She had more fit entombing
In that balmy southern isle,
With its summer's sunny blooming.
