Or held the fancy of a heart bereaved.

So beautiful she--was; ah! "was," say I,
Yet doubt her dead--I did not see her die.
Only by others borne across the sea
Came the incredible wild blasphemy
They called her death--as though it could be true
Of such an immortality as you!

True of these eyes that from her picture gaze,
Serene, star-steadfast, as the heaven's own eyes;
Of that deep bosom, white as hawthorn sprays,
Where my world-weary head forever lies;
True of these quiet hands, so marble-cool,
Still on her lap as lilies on a pool.

Must I believe her dead--that this sweet clay,
That even from her picture breathes perfume,
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,"
I sighed: and, one by one, before me passed
The rainbowed daughters of the vernal showers,
Saying, "She comes at last."

Ah! broken promise of the world! how fair
You speak young hearts! In many a wanton word
Of lyric April, each succeeding year,
By risen flower, and the returning bird,
You vowed to bring back her.

And now the flutes are in the trees once more,
The violets breathe up through the melting snow,
Old Earth throws open wide her grassy door--
As if there were no violets long ago,
Or any birds before.

"APRIL IS IN THE WORLD AGAIN"

April is in the world again,
And all the world is filled with flowers--
Flowers for others, not for me!
For my one flower I cannot see,
Lost in the April showers.

I cannot wake her, though I sing,
And all the