Poems (Dorr)/The Urn
THE URN
Across the blue Atlantic waves She sent a little gift to me:A golden urn—a graceful toy As one need care to see.
Smiling, I held it in my hand, Thinking her message o'er and o'er,Nor dreamed her swift feet pressed so near The undiscovered shore.
Oh! had it been a funeral urn— The gift my darling sent to meWith loving thoughts and tender words Across the heaving sea—
A funeral urn which might have held Her sacred ashes, sealed in restUtter as that which holds in thrall Some pulseless marble breast!
Where drifts she now? On what far seas Floateth to-day her golden hair?'What stars behold her pale hands, clasped In ecstasy of prayer?
Forever in this thought of mine, Like the fair Lady of Shalott,She drifteth, drifteth with the tide, But never comes to Camelot!