AFTER DEATH

AFTER DEATH

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept

     And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may

     Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,

Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.

He leaned above me, thinking that I slept

     And could not hear him; but I heard him say:

     ‘Poor child, poor child:’ and as he turned away

Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.

He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold

     That hid my face, or take my hand in his,

           Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:

           He did not love me living; but once dead

     He pitied me; and very sweet it is

To know he still is warm though I am cold.