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.