Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/329

 No, not one finger moves; they're locked in sleep, And very cold withal; pray do not weep, Else I would weep too, that I could not break Her pleasant slumbers for your pity's sake.

Good friends, I pray withdraw that veil once more, And say, is she not lovely as before; Hath not this brow, this cheek, this neck, this arm, And this fair body all some goodly charm Hovering around them, though the soul is gone On some far pilgrimage from this bright one? Men say this maiden loved me—simple me, Even from the cradle and sweet infancy, Till we had learned speech to speak our loves As others do, by streams and shaded groves; But that is false in part, for never word Of love from either lip by us was heard; The tongue is false and cogging, but the eye, The vanishing rosy smile, speak faithfully. Yes, Love beneath these cold lids did repair As to a crystal palace, there to blend His essence with the lights they did defend; And when they op'd their portals, what a light Poured from the worlds they hid! Two bright