SONGS OF LA MOUCHE
I heard them say, "He died last night,"
Paused on the threshold, drawn and white,
Entered that dear familiar room;
Two candles on the curtained gloom
Cast orange light.
Paused on the threshold, drawn and white,
Entered that dear familiar room;
Two candles on the curtained gloom
Cast orange light.
Beside his bed, in my wonted chair
I took my place; but he lay there,
Stiff and straight from head to feet,
Half revealed through a winding sheet,
In the heavy air.
I took my place; but he lay there,
Stiff and straight from head to feet,
Half revealed through a winding sheet,
In the heavy air.
No petulant greeting, no sombre jest,
Silent, his hands crossed over his breast,
He lay, the carven monument
Of a warrior, whose last bolt is spent,
Taking his rest.
Silent, his hands crossed over his breast,
He lay, the carven monument
Of a warrior, whose last bolt is spent,
Taking his rest.
Majestic in death's stern array,
Wrapped in a passionless calm he lay—
A stranger usurping my lover's place—
I could not weep, but covered his face
And went my way.
Wrapped in a passionless calm he lay—
A stranger usurping my lover's place—
I could not weep, but covered his face
And went my way.
February 17th, 1856.
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