My Mourner

I LIE here very still; and he draws nigh
To stand beside me, and to look his last
On her who far beyond his ken has passed,
Yet rests here, 'neath his touch, so tranquilly;
From the shut lips there comes no least, low Sigh;
No eyelash quivers, and white Death holds fast,
In long embrace by longing dreams forecast,
The life that had known Life's satiety.

I laughed and loved and wept, and now I sleep;
And that were best of all, if no dreams come
To mar this quietude of slumber, deep
And still as some deep night when winds are dumb;
But he, my mourner, wherefore should he keep
Intrusive vigil round my silent home?
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