Page:The collected poems, lyrical and narrative, of A. Mary F. Robinson.djvu/27

 of Death, O night that bringest all! Night full of dreams and large with promises, O night that holdest on thy shadowy knees Sleep for all fevers, hope for every thrall; Bring thou to my beloved, when I die, The memory of our enchanted past; So let her turn, remembering me at last. And I shall hear and triumph where I lie. Then let my face, pale as a waning moon, Rise on thy dark and be again as dear; Let my dead voice find its forgotten tune And strike again as sweetly on her ear As when, upon my lips, one far-off June, Thy name, O Death! she could not brook to hear.