244
She Is Not Dead.
She is not dead—oh! do not say she's dead.
Good friends, she lives! what though the rose hath fled
From her sweet face, doth not the lily there
As beautiful a form and 'semblance bear?
Good friends, I say she lives! her beauty lives!
And death destroys all loveliness of hue;
And were she dead, that lustre life but gives,
From her, methinks, would have evanished too.
Good friends, join with me—do but give me space
To feast upon the beauties of this face.
She lives in death, she triumphs in the tomb,
And, like a grave's flower, springs in fresher bloom
The nearer it is planted to the dead!
Raise, raise a little more her drooping head;
Her bosom heaves not—'tis, like marble, white,
And, like it, cold. But mark how exquisite
And finely fashioned is this pale stiff arm
Which sleeps upon it; touch it, it will not harm.
