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DEAD MY LOVE IS DEAD.
[Margaret.]
THE pure, grave eyes will never smile again,
Will never change in love, or joy, or pain ;
The tender mouth is closely folded now,
The quiet hair lies lightly on his brow.
He used to toss it back — the wavy hair,
And I would envy it for lying there,
And press my yearning fingers there instead, —
And now, my love is dead, my love is dead !
How strange it feels — the very scent of flowers
Is just the same as when we called them ours
The little rose-bud pressed into his hand
Fades not so soon as when he used to stand
And say that I should have it for a kiss,
And watch my longing ripen into bliss,
The while he stooped to me his kingly head, —
And now, my love is dead, my love is dead !
