Page:Where the Dead Men Lie.djvu/67

Rh Asleep. I tapped upon the pane: She stirred not, so I tapped again. She rests so silent on the bed, Friend, that I fear the maid is dead; For they have cut great sprays of bloom And laid them all about the room. The scent of roses fills the air: They nestle in her breast and hair— Like snowy mourners, scented, sweet, Around her pillow and her feet.' Ah, me!' the Box-Tree, sighing, said; My love is dead! my love is dead!' And shook his branches till each leaf Chorused his agony of grief.

They bore the maiden forth, and laid Her down to rest where she had played Amid her piles of forest-spoil In childhood: now the sun-caked soil Closed over her. 'Ah!' sighed the Tree, Mark how my love doth come to me!' He pushed brown rootlets down, and slid Between the casket and its lid; And bade them very gently creep And wake the maiden from her sleep. The tiny filaments slipped down And plucked the lace upon her gown. She stirred not when they ventured near And softly whispered in her ear.