‘It is not you, my sweetheart,
For you are here with me.
That frame was but the promise of
The thing that was to be—
‘A tuning of the choir
Ere the harmonies begin;
And yet it is the image
Of the subtle thing within.
‘There’s not a trick of body,
There’s not a trait of mind,
But you bring it over with you,
Ethereal, refined,
‘But still the same; for surely
If we alter as we die,
You would be you no longer,
And I would not be I.
‘I might be an angel,
But not the girl you knew;
You might be immaculate,
But that would not be you.
‘And now I see you smiling,
So, darling, take my hand;
And I will lead you outward
To a sweet and pleasant land,
‘Where thought is clear and nimble,
Where life is pure and fresh,
Where the soul comes back rejoicing
From the mud-bath of the flesh
‘But still that soul is human,
With human ways, and so
I love my love in spirit,
As I loved him long ago.’
So with hands together
And fingers twining tight,
The two dead lovers drifted
In the golden morning light.
But a grey-haired man was lying
Beneath them on a bed,
With a silver-mounted pistol
Still clotted to his head.