O MY LOVE LEONORE

O my Love Leonore! O my lithe Lady! Is it the Grave you are gracing to-night? Is your breast cold now and covered with white? Are you grown stiff, who were lissome and light?— Are they the plain coffin-planks that you see, Narrow for feet that were flying and free, Rude for white hands that wove spells over me?— O my Love Leonore,—O my lithe Lady?— Is your cheek cool of the flush that I fanned? Must you not dance now, nor once wave your hand? Can you not laugh, through the small stones and sand,— O my Love Leonore! O my lithe Lady?— —It is the Grave I am gracing to-night. I am clay-cold now, and stiff-limbed, and white. A great Lord, DEATH, hath me in this plight. O my Love Leonore, O my lithe Lady, If he, the great Lord, lays hands on your hand, He will not help you to dance or to stand; Nor from your eyes brush the small stones and sand. Therefore farewell. Whom he wooeth is won. Therefore farewell. I am jealous of none. Are not both dancing and dying soon done? O my Love Leonore,—O my lithe Lady?—