Was carried on a fiery wind away,
Or foully locked in the worm-whispering tomb;
This casket rifled, ribald fingers thrust
'Mid all her dainty treasure--is _this_ dust!

Once such a dewy marvel of a girl,
Warm as the sun, and ivory as the moon;
All gone of her, all lost--except this curl
Saved from her head one summer afternoon,
Tied with a little ribbon from her breast--
This only mine, and Death's now all the rest.

Must I believe it true! Bid me not go
Where on her grave the English violets blow;
Nay, leave me--if a dream, indeed, it be--
Still in my dream that she is somewhere she,
Silent, as was her wont. It is a lie--
She is not dead--I did not see her die.


SPRING'S PROMISES

When the spring comes again, will you be there?
Three springs I watched and waited for your face,
And listened for your voice upon the air;
I sought for you in many a hidden place,
Saying, "She must be there."

"Surely some magic slumber holds her fast,
She whose blue eyes were morning's earliest flowers,"