Enough Rope/The White Lady
The White Lady
I CANNOT rest, I cannot rest In strait and shiny wood,My woven hands upon my breast— The dead are all so good!
The earth is cool across their eyes; They lie there quietly.But I am neither old nor wise, They do not welcome me.
Where never I walked alone before I wander in the weeds;And people scream and bar the door, And rattle at their beads.
We cannot rest, we never rest Within a narrow bedWho still must love the living best— Who hate the drowsy dead!