Of My Lady In Death

  All seems a painted show.  I look
    Up thro’ the bloom that’s shed
    By leaves above my head,
  And feel the earnest life forsook
    All being, when she died:—­
    My heart halts, hot and dried
  As the parched course where once a brook
    Thro’ fresh growth used to flow,—­
    Because her past is now
  No more than stories in a printed book.

  The grass has grown above that breast,
    Now cold and sadly still,
    My happy face felt thrill:—­
  Her mouth’s mere tones so much expressed! 
    Those lips are now close set,—­
    Lips which my own have met;
  Her eyelids by the earth are pressed;
    Damp earth weighs on her eyes;
    Damp earth shuts out the skies. 
  My lady rests her heavy, heavy rest.

  To see her slim perfection sweep,
    Trembling impatiently,
    With eager gaze at me! 
  Her feet spared little things that creep:—­
    “We’ve no more right,” she’d say,
    “In this the earth than they.” 
  Some remember it but to weep. 
    Her hand’s slight weight was such,
    Care lightened with its touch;
  My lady sleeps her heavy, heavy sleep.

  My day-dreams hovered round her brow;
    Now o’er its perfect forms
    Go softly real worms. 
  Stern death, it was a cruel blow,
    To cut that sweet girl’s life
    Sharply, as with a knife. 
  Cursed life that lets me live and grow,
    Just as a poisonous root,
    From which rank blossoms shoot;
  My lady’s laid so very, very low.

  Dread power, grief cries aloud, “unjust,”—­
    To let her young life play
    Its easy, natural way;
  Then, with an unexpected thrust,
    Strike out the life you lent,
    Just when her feelings blent
  With those around whom she saw trust
    Her willing power to bless,
    For their whole happiness;
  My lady moulders into common dust.

  Small birds twitter and peck the weeds
    That wave above her head,
    Shading her lowly bed: 
  Their brisk wings burst light globes of seeds,
    Scattering the downy pride
    Of dandelions, wide: 
  Speargrass stoops with watery beads: 
    The weight from its fine tips
    Occasionally drips: 
  The bee drops in the mallow-bloom, and feeds.

  About her window, at the dawn,
    From the vine’s crooked boughs
    Birds chirupped an arouse: 
  Flies, buzzing, strengthened with the morn;—­
    She’ll not hear them again
    At random strike the pane: 
  No more upon the close-cut lawn,
    Her garment’s sun-white hem
    Bend the prim daisy’s stem,
  In walking forth to view what flowers are born.

  No more she’ll watch the dark-green rings
    Stained quaintly on the lea,
    To image fairy glee;
  While thro’ dry grass a faint breeze sings,
    And swarms of insects revel
    Along the sultry level:—­
  No more will watch their brilliant wings,
    Now lightly dip, now soar,
    Then sink, and rise once more. 
  My lady’s death makes dear these trivial things.