Classic Poem

Still, still and lovely, as some sculptured form,
She lay draped in her shroud of snowy white;
But cold the cheek that once was purely warm,
And dim the eye that once was proudly bright.

The rich curl-clusters of her golden hair
Hung o'er the pulseless form in careless grace;
And Death's cold shadow rested on the fair
And placid beauty of the faultless face.

The parted lips still wore a ruby tinge,
And round the mouth a smile yet seemed to play;
The right hand rested on the curtain-fringe,
As if in deep and dreamless sleep she lay:

And once or twice when the faint summer breeze,
Fluttered the golden glory of her hair,
Hope smiled above our gathering miseries,
And " Death," we said, " cannot be dwelling there!"

But when the twilight fell in hazy gloom,
And 'neath the window sang the wakeful bird,
A silent horror brooded o'er the room,
And all the fountains of our being stirred;

" And she is gone," we said, " for ever gone!
That silvery voice can now be heard no more!
No more those half-closed eyes shall meet our own,
Their dark-blue depths with warm love running o'er!"

And a wild hunger seized upon our hearts
For all the joys possessed in days of old,
The clinging lips — where all the life-blood starts;
The clasping hands — where neither hand is cold.

Then as the solemn night chased twilight gray,
We felt a softening influence hovering nigh:
We said, " Our darling has not gone away;
She is not dead, although she seemed to die.

" She still is in our midst, though years may roll,
And life be blown away by every breath:
For beauty is immortal as the soul;
And Love can never yield her crown to Death!"