Who stands before me on the stairs: Ah, is it you, my love? My candle-light burns through your arm, And still thou dost not move; Thy body's dead, this is not you -- It is thy ghost my light burns through. Thy spirit this: I leap the stairs, To reach thy body's place; I kiss and kiss, and still there comes No colour to thy face; I hug thee for one little breath -- For this is sleep, it is not death! . . . . . . The first night she was in her grave, And I looked in the glass, I saw her sit upright in bed -- Without a sound it was; I saw her hand feel in the cloth, To fetch a box of powder forth. She sat and watched me all the while, For fear I looked her way; I saw her powder cheek and chin, Her fast corrupting clay; Then down my lady lay, and smiled -- She thought her beauty saved, poor child. Now down the stairs I leap half-mad, And up the street I start; I still can see her hand at work, And Oh, it breaks my heart: All night behind my back I see Her powdering, with her eyes on me. |