Page:Poems Welby.djvu/47

  And thy sweet form of grace,
  That went to rest too soon,
And the turning up of thy young face
  Beneath the placid moon!

  I sometimes think thy hand
  Is on my forehead prest,
And almost feel thy tresses, fanned
  Across my beating breast,
  And catch the sunny flow
  Of thy mantle on the air,
And turn to see if it is so—
  Alas! thou art not there!

  And I wander out alone
  Beside the singing rills,
When nothing but the wind's low tone
  Comes stealing down the hills;
  And while along the deep
  The moonbeams softly shine,
My silent soul goes forth to keep
  Its blessed tryste with thine.

  I weep not though thou'rt laid
  In such a lone dark place,
Thou, who didst live without a shade,
  To cloud thy sweet young face;
  For now thy spirit sings
  Where angel-ones have trod,