Paler, not quite so fair as in her life, She lies upon the bed, perfectly still; Her little hands clasped with a patient will Upon her bosom, swelling without strife; An honoured virgin, a most blameless wife. The roses lean upon the window sill, That she trained once; their sweets the hot air fill, And make the death-apartment odour-rife. Her meek white hands folded upon her breast, Her gentle eyes closed in the long last sleep, She lieth down in her unbroken rest; Her kin, kneeling around, a vigil keep, Venting their grief in low sobs unrepressed: -- Friends, she but slumbers, wherefore do ye weep? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NURSING HOME: THE DOLL by KAREN SWENSON EXTRACTS FROM AN OPERA: 2. DAISY'S SONG by JOHN KEATS SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 45. A LITTLE WHILE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) PENTRIDGE BY THE RIVER by WILLIAM BARNES |