THE WET SHROUD.
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'Ach, Sohn! was hält dich zurück?' 'Siehe, Mutter, das sind die Thränen.' Mutterthränen. They gave her back again: They never asked to see her face; But gazed upon her vacant place, Moaning, like those in pain. There was a brief hot thirst; A thirsting of the heart for streams Which never more save in sweet dreams From that lost fount should burst. There was a frightful cry, As if the whole great earth were dead; Yet was one arrow only sped, One, only, called to die. Then all grew calm as sleep; And they in household ways once more Did go: the anguish half was o'er, For they had learned to weep. They stood about her bed, And whispered low beneath their cloud; For she might hear them speaking loud— She was so near, they said. Softly her pillow pressing, With reverent brows they mutely lay; They scarcely missed the risen clay In her pure soul's caressing. Last, from their eyes were driven Those heart-drops, lest—so spoke their fears— Her robes all heavy with their tears Might clog her flight to Heaven! E.L.H.
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