BESIDE THE DEAD

Touch not her hand, let not your tear-drops stain The show-white purity of her dead brow; Withhold your lips, their passion or their pain Can thrill her nor with love nor pity now. The empty years that followed your farewell— The joyless dawns, the nights that brought no rest Are ended,—and those weary eyelids fell O’er eyes that had grown dim in one vain quest. Thank God for this; her woman’s faith remained Steadfast, unshaken to the very last, And with her idol undefaced, unstained, To place it in a “niche in Heaven” she passed. But yesterday, your lightest whispered word Had thrilled her heart, as spring’s first breath awakes The rapture in the bosom of a bird Till winter’s silence with a song he breaks. And I,—whose love for her was purified In the fierce crucible of human pain, Had felt that I was more than satisfied If loss of mine had ended in her gain. For her soul’s sustenance you only left The memory of a lightly plighted vow, To take one kiss from those dead lips were theft, The jewel was yours,—I claim the casket now.