  IT was but yesterday that thou Wert with love-whispers eloquent, Yet come and look upon her now That life is spent. How strangely white the face hath grown, No longer prest by kisses fond; Why turn’st, now that her soul hath flown And rests beyond? Why enter’st not the darkened room To touch again those cold, white lips— So cold and white, seen in the gloom Of Death’s eclipse? Thou wert so loving once, but now Take that cold hand as lovers may, Implant a kiss on that calm brow, Nor turn away. It was but yesterday that thou Wert with love-whispers eloquent— Thou wilt not look upon her now That life is spent. |
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