Volume 1 / Book 8 — THOMAS HOOD.
Reading edition
1798-1845.
The Death-Bed.
We watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.
Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
The Bridge of Sighs.
One more Unfortunate Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death.
Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly Young, and so fair!