By Her White Bed
By her white bed I muse a little space:
She fell asleep—not very long ago,—
And yet the grass was here and not the snow—
The leaf, the bud, the blossom, and—her face!—
Midsummer’s heaven above us, and the grace
Of Lovers own day, from dawn to afterglow;
The fireflies’ glimmering, and the sweet and low
Plaint of the whip-poor-wills, and every place
In thicker twilight for the roses’ scent.
Then _night_.—She slept—in such tranquility,
I walk atiptoe still, nor _dare_ to weep,
Feeling, in all this hush, she rests content—
That though God stood to wake her for me, she
Would mutely plead: 'Nay, Lord! Let _him_ so sleep.'
