The Bromsgrovian/Volume 2/Number 5/The Dying Maiden
The Dying Maiden.
Ay! thou art for the grave; thy glances shine Too brightly to shine long; another springShall deck her for men's eyes—but not for thine, Scaled in a sleep which knows no wakening.The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, Nor the vexed ore a mineral of power;And they who love thee wait in anxious grief Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour.Glide softly to thy rest, then: Death should come Gently to one of gentle mould like thee—As light winds wandering through groves of bloom Detach the delicate blossom from the tree.Close thy sweet eyes calmly and without pain, And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.