Tho' the woman's soul that must else be mute; aye soul and spirit and mind!
Cry to your soul in another's words—"And I am your Rosalind!"
To E. P. B.
Imperial as that famed Elizabeth
Before whose feet a knight his cloak cast down—
A sovereign—altho' thine only crown
Love's roses 'twine for thee, Elizabeth.
Ah, maiden sweeter than morn's nectared breath,
Across thy path no regal robe I fling—
Only a living, loving heart I bring
To lay at thy dear feet, Elizabeth.
Through the Dark
Last night they laid me in my winding sheet,
Set burning tapers at my feet and head,
Decked me with wan white blossoms faint and sweet,
And told each other softly, "She is dead."
Ay, dumb and dead! Enshrouded, cold and stark
I lay where waned the tawny tapers dim,
Pulseless and pale; yet thro' the dreadful dark
I lived in thoughts of him.
The morning came. One who had loved me bent
Above my face with tears and bated breath;
Laid on my heart the roses he had sent—
And I—was glad of death!