GEORGE ELIOT
Pass on, O world, and leave her to her rest!
Brothers, be silent while the drifting snow
Weaves its white pall above her, lying low
With empty hands crossed idly on her breast.
O sisters, let her sleep! while unrepressed
Your pitying tears fall silently and slow,
Washing her spotless, in their crystal flow,
Of that one stain whereof she stands confessed.
Are we so pure that we should scoff at her,
Or mock her now, low lying in her tomb?
God knows how sharp the thorn her roses wore,
Even what time their petals were astir
In the warm sunshine, odorous with perfume.
Leave her to Him who weighed the cross she bore!
Brothers, be silent while the drifting snow
Weaves its white pall above her, lying low
With empty hands crossed idly on her breast.
O sisters, let her sleep! while unrepressed
Your pitying tears fall silently and slow,
Washing her spotless, in their crystal flow,
Of that one stain whereof she stands confessed.
Are we so pure that we should scoff at her,
Or mock her now, low lying in her tomb?
God knows how sharp the thorn her roses wore,
Even what time their petals were astir
In the warm sunshine, odorous with perfume.
Leave her to Him who weighed the cross she bore!
