274
BERTHA IN THE LANE.
Colder grow my hands and feet—
When I wear the shroud I made,
Let the folds lie straight and neat,
And the rosemary he spread,—
That if any friend should come,
(To see thee, sweet!) all the room
May be lifted out of gloom.
When I wear the shroud I made,
Let the folds lie straight and neat,
And the rosemary he spread,—
That if any friend should come,
(To see thee, sweet!) all the room
May be lifted out of gloom.
And, clear Bertha, let me keep
On my hand this little ring,
Which at nights, when others sleep,
I can still see glittering.
Let me wear it out of sight,
In the grave,—where it will light
All the Dark up, day and night.
On my hand this little ring,
Which at nights, when others sleep,
I can still see glittering.
Let me wear it out of sight,
In the grave,—where it will light
All the Dark up, day and night.
On that grave, drop not a tear!
Else, though fathom-deep the place
Through the woollen shroud I wear,
I shall feel it on my face.
Rather smile there, blessed one,
Thinking of me in the sun—
Or forget me—smiling on!
Else, though fathom-deep the place
Through the woollen shroud I wear,
I shall feel it on my face.
Rather smile there, blessed one,
Thinking of me in the sun—
Or forget me—smiling on!
Art thou near me? nearer? so!
Kiss me close upon the eyes,—
That the earthly light may go
Sweetly as it used to rise,—
When I watched the morning-grey
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way
He was sure to come that clay.
Kiss me close upon the eyes,—
That the earthly light may go
Sweetly as it used to rise,—
When I watched the morning-grey
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way
He was sure to come that clay.
So,—no more vain words be said!
The hosannas nearer roll—
Mother, smile now on thy Dead,—
I am death-strong in my soul!
Mystic Dove alit on cross,
Guide the poor bird of the snows
Through the snow-wind above loss!
The hosannas nearer roll—
Mother, smile now on thy Dead,—
I am death-strong in my soul!
Mystic Dove alit on cross,
Guide the poor bird of the snows
Through the snow-wind above loss!
