Happiness . . . ! This when morning came
To wake us with its sword of flame!
To wake us with its sword of flame!
God knoweth how I listened, close
To her lips' lovely parting rose,
Lest one fine breath should stir . . . and bid
The uplifting of a heavy lid,
Or wake again that silent heart
Whence fell the linen folds apart . . .
Under the pulseless hills of snow
Where strayed the blue veins to and fro
No breath should ever stir again!
And then my grief broke forth like rain.
Rang through the tomb-like house and shook
The white doves in their rose-vine nook.
None else to pain or grieve was there
In the still villa anywhere.
I lay until the dying day
Pale as my cheeks, and cold and grey,
To her lips' lovely parting rose,
Lest one fine breath should stir . . . and bid
The uplifting of a heavy lid,
Or wake again that silent heart
Whence fell the linen folds apart . . .
Under the pulseless hills of snow
Where strayed the blue veins to and fro
No breath should ever stir again!
And then my grief broke forth like rain.
Rang through the tomb-like house and shook
The white doves in their rose-vine nook.
None else to pain or grieve was there
In the still villa anywhere.
I lay until the dying day
Pale as my cheeks, and cold and grey,
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