Here Sleeps

Here sleeps, past earth's awakening,
A woman, true and pretty;
Who was herself in everything —
Tender, and grave, and witty.
Her lightest turn of foot, hand, head,
Was way of wind with water;
So with her thoughts and all she said —
It seemed her heart had taught her.
O thou most dear and loving soul,
Think not I shall forget thee;
Nor take amiss what here is writ
For those who never met thee!
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.