Pierrette in Memory. [William Griffith]
Pierrette has gone, but it was not
Exactly that she died,
So much as vanished and forgot
To tell where she would hide.
To keep a sudden rendezvous,
It came into her mind
That she was late. What could she do
But leave distress behind?
Afraid of being in disgrace,
And hurrying to dress,
She heard there was another place
In need of loveliness.
She went so softly and so soon,
She hardly made a stir;
But going took the stars and moon
And sun away with her.
The Three Sisters. [Arthur Davison Ficke]
Gone are the three, those sisters rare
With wonder-lips and eyes ashine.
One was wise and one was fair,
And one was mine.
Ye mourners, weave for the sleeping hair
Of only two, your ivy vine.
For one was wise and one was fair,
But one was mine.
Song. [Adelaide Crapsey]
I make my shroud, but no one knows —
So shimmering fine it is and fair,
With stitches set in even rows,
I make my shroud, but no one knows.