Where, mute and motionless, she lay,
How slow the midnight moments sped!
How void of sunlight woke the day!
Nor ope'd her eyes to morning's beam,
Though all around thee woke to her;
Nor broke thy raven-pinioned dream
Of coffin, shroud, and sepulchre.
'Why beats thy breast when hers is still?
Why linger'st thou when she is gone?
Hop'st thou to light on good or ill?