And I should be lying quite dead—quite dead!
You would be thinking of me as alive,
While daisies were growing over my head.
And now—for my good—will you crush my life
With a burthen it cannot bear, I know?
O Harry, my darling, I am your wife—
O what have I done that you treat me so?'
He stared in my eyes with a sort of frown,
That more than a smile gave promise of grace;
The mask that he wore fell suddenly down,