It was the hour of dawn,
   When the heart beats thin and small,
The window glimmered grey,
   Framed in a shadow wall.

And in the cold sad light
   Of the early morningtide,
The dear dead girl came back
   And stood by his bedside.

The girl he lost came back: 
   He saw her flowing hair;
It flickered and it waved
   Like a breath in frosty air.

As in a steamy glass,
   Her face was dim and blurred;
Her voice was sweet and thin,
   Like the calling of a bird.

’You said that you would come,
   You promised not to stay;
And I have waited here,
   To help you on the way.

’I have waited on,
   But still you bide below;
You said that you would come,
   And oh, I want you so!

’For half my soul is here,
   And half my soul is there,
When you are on the earth
   And I am in the air.

’But on your dressing-stand
   There lies a triple key;
Unlock the little gate
   Which fences you from me.

’Just one little pang,
   Just one throb of pain,
And then your weary head
   Between my breasts again.’

In the dim unhomely light
   Of the early morningtide,
He took the triple key
   And he laid it by his side.

A pistol, silver chased,
   An open hunting knife,
A phial of the drug
   Which cures the ill of life.

He looked upon the three,
   And sharply drew his breath: 
’Now help me, oh my love,
   For I fear this cold grey death.’

She bent her face above,
   She kissed him and she smiled;
She soothed him as a mother
   May sooth a frightened child.

’Just that little pang, love,
   Just a throb of pain,
And then your weary head
   Between my breasts again.’

He snatched the pistol up,
   He pressed it to his ear;
But a sudden sound broke in,
   And his skin was raw with fear.

He took the hunting knife,
   He tried to raise the blade;
It glimmered cold and white,
   And he was sore afraid.

He poured the potion out,
   But it was thick and brown;
His throat was sealed against it,
   And he could not drain it down.

He looked to her for help,
   And when he looked—­behold! 
His love was there before him
   As in the days of old.

He saw the drooping head,
   He saw the gentle eyes;
He saw the same shy grace of hers
   He had been wont to prize.

She pointed and she smiled,
   And lo! he was aware
Of a half-lit bedroom chamber
   And a silent figure there.

A silent figure lying
   A-sprawl upon a bed,
With a silver-mounted pistol
   Still clotted to his head.

And as he downward gazed,
   Her voice came full and clear,
The homely tender voice
   Which he had loved to hear: