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.”