Classic Poem

Here on this marble slab she lies,
Staring with sightless eyes.
Her cheek is white as marble now,
And her unwrinkled brow,
Where raven tresses creep and trail,
Is more than lily pale.
She's not your loved one. Gently place
The sheet upon her face:
She is too frail a thing and fair
To lie uncovered there
Among the city's unknown dead,
Upon such horrid bed.
These are mere flotsam from life's sea—
These ghastly things—but she,
More like some white shell washed ashore
Amid its ceaseless roar.
And no one knows her. All that come
Gaze curiously dumb,
With sickened heart and stifled breath,
At mystery and death.

She is not yours, nor yours. Perchance,
With hungry, eager glance,
Some frightened woman may rush in
Among these wrecks of sin;
May find what she has come to seek,
And, with a sudden shriek,
Yea, with a mother's frenzy, fill
This haunt of gloom and chill.
In such omnipotence of pain
Death would forget his reign:
Those lips, and that all-hallowed brow,
So sweetly sacred now,
Where Death has set his seal of snow,
A mother's kiss would know.
But then, as now, those eyes would stare,
Unlit by joy or care.
How wonderful is Death! How dread!
If aught could raise the dead—
If any power, below, above—
It were a mother's love.

“Found in the lake.” Enough to know
That God would have it so.
Ah! then forbear to question why
She deemed it sweet to lie
And let the cooling water swirls
Toy with her glossy curls.
All night upon her lily breast
The soft waves gently pressed;
All night they sang upon the shore
Low love-songs o'er and o'er;
All night they rocked her in her sleep,
Dreamless, and long, and deep.
“Found in the lake.” What more to say?
Let science stand away.
It matters not if sin's despair
Haunted and drove her there;
More perfect eyes, in clearer light,
Will judge her deeds aright.
Then leave a fresh flower with her here,
Or, fairer still, a tear.

Go out into the noisy strife
Of this great city's life;
There is no time to think of death.
No time for rest or breath,
No time for sentiment or tears,
For aught that soothes or cheers.
Great wagons rattle in the street,
The pave is loud with feet,
And shod hoofs clatter on the stones.
If any cries or moans.
Ring feebly out, the voice of pain
Is lost in sounds of gain.
Oh, madness of it all! What meed
Can sate such boundless greed?
White phantom of the morgue, I pray,
Haunt me by night and day;
Wide-open eyes, stare into mine,
Reproachful, sad, divine,
Until my heart, no longer dumb
In all this roar and hum,
Wakes merciful to any cry
Of hearts that bleed and die.