She is not dead—she would not die
And leave us nothing but regret;
It is but sleep that shrouds that eye,—
I know she's living yet:
What have I done amiss, or thou,
That God should steal our blossom now?
Her cheeks are cold and white as snow,
Her lips lie languidly apart;
But I can hear the warm blood flow,—
The music of her heart!
And yet those hands are stiff and chill,—
I never saw them lie so still.
Her rest is very, very deep;
So deep, her bosom scarcely heaves;
She seems a flower just gone asleep,
Among whose folded leaves
There lingers a faint, odorous breath:—
Dear God, if this indeed is death!
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They tell me thou art free from pain,
They say our parting is but brief;
But till we meet in Heaven again,
Where shall I hide my grief?
Priest, I will cease this vain regret,
If thou wilt teach me to forget.
Tomorrow morn the sun will rise,
The stars will shine tomorrow night,
But oh! how hateful to these eyes
Will seem their once loved light!
There is no longer joy to me
In anything thou canst not see.
All earth's fair forms seem now to me
To take the ugly form of death;
The very flowers so loved by thee,
Have lost their perfumed breath:
All sounds fall harshly on my ear,
That were most sweet when thou couldst hear.
I know thy sinless soul whose light
To us so brief a time was given,
With kindred spirits, pure and bright,
Is happy now in heaven:—
Dear child! and yet I cannot bear
To think thy soul is even there!