LVII.

But the true parting came! I look’d my last On the sad beauty of that slumbering face: How could I think the lovely spirit pass’d Which there had left so tenderly its trace? Yet a dim awfulness was on the brow-- No! not like sleep to look upon art thou, Death, Death! She lay, a thing for earth’s embrace, To cover with spring-wreaths. For earth’s?--the wave That gives the bier no flowers, makes moan above her grave!