This maiden she is dead, is dead, while love was fresh and new. They laid her in the earth, the earth, before the night was through. They bedded her alone, alone, wrapped in a bride's array. They bedded her alone, alone, low-coffined in the clay. They left her merrily, merrily, when dawn made bright the way. A-singing merrily, merrily. "Each in his turn," sang they. "This maiden she is dead, is dead, while love was fresh and new." They went to till the fields, the fields, as every day they do. . . . | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOW THE GREAT GUEST CAME by EDWIN MARKHAM SPRING ON BROADWAY by LOUIS UNTERMEYER A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 32 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN ROUGE BOUQUET [MARCH 7, 1918] by ALFRED JOYCE KILMER RECUERDO by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY MOLLY PITCHER [JUNE 28, 1778] by KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD TO THE SMALL CELANDINE (1) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |