Classic Poem

I thought I knew her past as mine,
Until she lay there dead,
And I explored that Indian chest
Lacquered in gold and red.

I did not stop to moralize;
The lesson there was plain.
I hurried home to tear and burn,
And make her loss my gain.

How inconsiderate to die
And leave such things to paint
An unguessed past, when friends bereaved
Prefer to mourn a saint!