The prayer in harebells and faint foxgloves crowned.
So, if she's dead, thou know'st she is not dead.
Disturb her not; she lies so lost in sleep:
The too-contracted soul its shell hath fled:
Her presence drifts about us and the deep
Is yet unvoyaged and she smiles o'erhead:—
Weep not nor sigh—thou wouldst not have her weep?
To principles of passion and of pride,
To trophied circumstance and specious law,
Stale saws of life, with scorn now flung aside,