WHERE the wild winter winds sound loud
Thro' turrets of the castled trees,
Dreamless beneath a stainless shroud,
She rests at last in unmarr'd peace.
What matter tho' the slow moon rise?
It will not reach her where she lies.
If that unbroken sleep be sweet,
I shall not wake her when I tread
The brown earth at her moveless feet,
Or touch the gray stone at her head;
Under the canopy of death
She stirs no more at mortal breath.
The brown eyes see no more the sun;
No more the brown curls kiss the dews;
Fold the white hands : her task is done :
God hath for her an holier use.
Yet in some undream'd future He
May give her pure love back to me.