BY HER WHITE BED.

By her white bed I muse a little space:

She fell asleep — not very long ago,—

And yet the grass was here and not the snow —

The leaf, the bud, the blossom, and — her face!—

Midsummer's heaven above us, and the grace

Of Lovers own day, from dawn to afterglow;

The fireflies’ glimmering, and the sweet and low

Plaint of the whip-poor-wills, and every place

In thicker twilight for the roses’ scent.

Then night.— She slept — in such tranquility,

I walk atiptoe still, nor dare to weep,

Feeling, in all this hush, she rests content —

That though God stood to wake her for me, she

Would mutely plead: “Nay, Lord! Let him so sleep.”