Classic Poem

Night lay upon mine eyelids,
My lips were choked with clay;
With brain and heart all rigid,
Deep in my grave I lay.

How long I may have slumbered
In sooth I cannot tell;
A knock upon my gravestone
Woke me—I heard it well.

“Wilt thou not rouse thee, Henry,
The day of judgment breaks;
Behold, the dead are rising,
Eternal bliss awakes.”

“How should I rise, my dearest?
For still I cannot see;
Alas! my eyes are blinded
With weeping,—utterly.”

“From thy dear eyelids, Henry,
Will I kiss off the night;
Thou shalt behold the angels,
And all the Heavens' delight.”

“How should I rise, my dearest?
My heart still bleedeth sore,
From the sharp wound you gave it
With one sharp word of yore.”

“I'll lay so softly, Henry,
My hand upon thy heart,
Then shall it bleed no longer,
Then shall be healed the smart.”

“How should I rise, my dearest?
Still from my head doth burst
The blood shed by my pistol
What time I lost thee first.”

“With my soft tresses, Henry,
I will stop up the wound;
I will drive back the blood-stream,
And make thee whole and sound.”

Her prayer was soft and loving,
I could no more delay;
Gladly would I have risen
And made to her my way.

When the old wounds re-open,
From chest and forehead break
The torrents of my life-blood,
And lo! I wake! I wake!