Pale brow—oft leant against his brow:
Dear hand—where his lips lay;
Dim eyes, that knew not they were fair,
Till his praise made them half they were—
Must all these pass away?
Must nought of mine be left for him
Save the poor curl he stole?
Round which this wildly-loving me
Will float unseen continually,
A disembodied soul.
A soul! Glad thought—that lightning-like
Leaps from this cloud of doom:
If, living, all its load of clay
Keeps not my spirit from him away,
Thou canst not, cruel tomb!
The moment that these earth-chains burst,
Like an enfranchised dove,
O'er seas and lands to him I fly,
Whom only, whether I live or die,
I loved, love, and shall love.
I'll wreathe around him—he shall breathe
My life instead of air;
In glowing sunbeams o'er his head
My visionary hands I'll spread,
And kiss his forehead fair.
I'll stand, an angel bold and strong,
Between his soul and sin;
If Grief lie stone-like on his heart,
I'll beat its marble doors apart,
To let Peace enter in.
He never more shall part from me,
Nor I from him abide;
Let these poor limbs in earth find rest!
I'll live like Love within his breast,
Rejoicing that I died.