21
THE LAST.
What! is the ladye sleeping?—no, too pale
Is that white slumber for the dreaming hours;
Too curious are the foldings of that veil,
And too unmoved that wreath of fragrant flowers.
She lieth like a statue, white and cold,
Like the soft marble of some sculptured column;
The long bright hair sweeps down in many a fold
O’er the high brow—wan with death’s hues, and solemn.
This is not sleep—for sleep retains the life
That gives the image to the troubled dreaming,
With all day’s feverish cares and fancies rife,
Around the flushed and unquiet pillow seeming.
But these are over here—the cold clear cheek
Has neither tears nor blushes to discover;
Fear hath no more to shun, nor hope to seek,
The sorrows and the joys of earth are over.
A little while, and e’en these sad remains
May stay with those who cherish them no longer;
Vainly the weeper what he loves retains—
He may not—love is strong—but death is stronger.
