And I said, "The thing is precious to me,
They will bury her soon in the church-yard clay;
It lies on her heart, and lost must be,
If I do not take it away."
I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,
And crept up the stairs that creaked from fright,
Till into the chamber of death I came,
Where she lay all in white.
The moon shone over her winding-sheet.
There, stark she lay on her carven bed;