Classic Poem

Gone is Umaimah to dwell where tall stones tell of the dead
—poor waif at rest in the grave, laid safe at last in the dust.
O thou—one half of my soul! how mourns the half that is left,
athirst for thee, though the tears stream fast and full from my eyes!
Ah me! for her did I fear, lest I should go to my grave
the first, and leave her alone, unveiled, to battle with want:
But now I sleep, and no care comes nigh to trouble my rest:
at last finds jealousy peace, when all it guarded are dead!
This is the kindness of death—shall I deny him his due?—
peace has he brought me, if pain be still the chief of his gifts.