Page:Songs of the Affections.pdf/37

Rh

And pale on the breast of the Dead she lay, The living cheek to the cheek of clay; The living cheek!—Oh! it was not vain, That strife of the spirit to rend its chain; She is there at rest in her place of pride, In death how queen-like—a glorious bride!

Joy for the freed One!—she might not stay When the crown had fallen from her life away; She might not linger—a weary thing, A dove, with no home for its broken wing, Thrown on the harshness of alien skies, That know not its own land's melodies. From the long heart-withering early gone; She hath lived—she hath loved—her task is done!