One of the Dead
Christina RossettiPaler, not quite so fair as in her life,
She lies upon the bed, perfectly still;
Her little hands clasped with a patient will
Upon her bosom, swelling without strife;
An honoured virgin, a most blameless wife.
The roses lean upon the window sill,
That she trained once; their sweets the hot air fill,
And make the death-apartment odour-rife.
Her meek white hands folded upon her breast,
Her gentle eyes closed in the long last sleep,
She lieth down in her unbroken rest;
Her kin, kneeling around, a vigil keep,
Venting their grief in low sobs unrepressed: —
Friends, she but slumbers, wherefore do ye weep?
Christina RossettiPaler, not quite so fair as in her life,
She lies upon the bed, perfectly still;Her little hands clasped with a patient willUpon her bosom, swelling without strife;
An honoured virgin, a most blameless wife.
The roses lean upon the window sill,That she trained once; their sweets the hot air fill,And make the death-apartment odour-rife.
Her meek white hands folded upon her breast,
Her gentle eyes closed in the long last sleep,She lieth down in her unbroken rest;
Her kin, kneeling around, a vigil keep,Venting their grief in low sobs unrepressed: —
Friends, she but slumbers, wherefore do ye weep?