Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/174



There is an earthly glimmer in the Tomb: And, healed in their own tears and with long sleep, My eyes unclose and feel no need to weep; But, in the corner of the narrow room, Behold Love's spirit standeth, with the bloom That things made deathless by Death's self may keep. O what a change! for now his looks are deep, And a long patient smile he can assume: While Memory, in some soft low monotone, Is pouring like an oil into mine ear The tale of a most short and hollow bliss, That I once throbbed indeed to call my own, Holding it hardly between joy and fear,— And how that broke, and how it came to this.