Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/973

 Now there are poppies in her locks, White poppies she must wear; Must wear a veil to shroud her face And the want graven there: Or is the hunger fed at length, Cast off the care?

We never saw her with a smile Or with a frown; Her bed seem'd never soft to her, Though toss'd of down; She little heeded what she wore, Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; We think her white brows often ached Beneath her crown, Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks That used to be so brown.

We never heard her speak in haste: Her tones were sweet, And modulated just so much As it was meet: Her heart sat silent through the noise And concourse of the street. There was no hurry in her hands, No hurry in her feet; There was no bliss drew nigh to her, That she might run to greet.

You should have wept her yesterday, Wasting upon her bed: But wherefore should you weep to-day That she is dead?