Poems (Chitwood)/Dead to Me

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

DEAD TO ME.

 Not above thy placid brow,
 Moss and ivy cluster now,—
 Not above each sightless eye,
 Lashes dim and dusty lie;
Yet a voice so deep and thrilling,
 Sounds like distant moaning sea;
All my soul with sadness filling,
 "Dead to me—dead to me."

 Still thy lips with gladness speak,—
 Still the peach bloom paints thy cheek,—
 Still thy heart throbs to and fro,
 Warm and glad as long ago;
Yet that voice doth never leave me,
 Wheresoe'er on earth I be;
  Still that thought can not deceive me,
 "Dead to me—dead to me."

 It's o'er—doth never now
 One dim ghost of thy dead vow
 Float before thee sad and white,
 In thy gala robes of might?
When the world-crowd kneels around thee—
 When proud hearts bow low to thee?
Oh no, pride and scorn have bound thee—
 "Dead to me—dead to me."

 Better far to know to-day,
 Every feature changed to clay;
 Better far a silent heart,
 Than love's light to thus depart.
"Dead yet living"—Oh, what sorrow
 Must this thought forever be,
Still to hear on each to-morrow,
 "Dead to me—dead to me."

 Yet I meet thee calm and cold,
 Gaze upon thy locks of gold—
 Gaze upon thy tearless eyes,
 Like the moonlit May-time skies;
Yet the measured words I utter,
 Tell no loving sigh to thee,
Give thy heart no hidden flutter—
 "Dead to me—dead to me."

 Had I laid thee sadly low,
 Where the early daisies blow;
 Ere thy love grew dim and dark,
 Ere was ashes every spark;
 Then though life were gloom without thee,
 Though my heart was dead with thee,
 Ne'er would come these words about me,
 "Dead to me—dead to me."