Must I believe this beauty wholly gone That in her picture here so deathless seems, And must I henceforth speak of her as one Tells of some face of legend or of dreams,
Still here and there remembered — scarce believed, Or held the fancy of a heart bereaved. So beautiful she — was; ah! “was,” say I, Yet doubt her dead — I did not see her die.
Only by others borne across the sea Came the incredible wild blasphemy They called her death — as though it could be true Of such an immortality as you!
True of these eyes that from her picture gaze, Serene, star-steadfast, as the heaven's own eyes; Of that deep bosom, white as hawthorn sprays, Where my world-weary head forever lies;
True of these quiet hands, so marble-cool, Still on her lap as lilies on a pool. Must I believe her dead — that this sweet clay, That even from her picture breathes perfume,
Was carried on a fiery wind away, Or foully locked in the worm-whispering tomb; This casket rifled, ribald fingers thrust ‘ Mid all her dainty treasure — is this dust!
Once such a dewy marvel of a girl, Warm as the sun, and ivory as the moon; All gone of her, all lost — except this curl Saved from her head one summer afternoon,
Tied with a little ribbon from her breast — This only mine, and Death's now all the rest. Must I believe it true! Bid me not go Where on her grave the English violets blow;
Nay, leave me — if a dream, indeed, it be — Still in my dream that she is somewhere she, Silent, as was her wont. It is a lie — She is not dead — I did not see her die.
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