They often asked me why it was I shunned the headstones so;
"I fear them not," I said, "to some new grave with you I'll go."
I thought perhaps a patriarch would tire of life, and sleep;
I'd walk behind,—he was so old,—there'd be no need to weep.
The morrow morn came darkly; there was awe within the town;
Three days of dread before they said, "'Twas pretty Alice Brown."
Oh! 'tis not she of hazel eyes; of plaited golden hair;
Whose smiles of greeting always beamed like heaven on my care!
Not Alice of the sidelong glance, soft heart, and tender sigh,
That kissed the rose aswoon: tell me, did God let Alice die?