HER PORTRAIT IMMORTAL

Must I believe this beauty wholly gone

That in her picture here so deathless seems,

And must I henceforth speak of her as one

Tells of some face of legend or of dreams,

Still here and there remembered — scarce believed,

Or held the fancy of a heart bereaved.

So beautiful she — was; ah! “was,” say I,

Yet doubt her dead — I did not see her die.

Only by others borne across the sea

Came the incredible wild blasphemy

They called her death — as though it could be true

Of such an immortality as you!

True of these eyes that from her picture gaze,

Serene, star-steadfast, as the heaven's own eyes;

Of that deep bosom, white as hawthorn sprays,

Where my world-weary head forever lies;

True of these quiet hands, so marble-cool,

Still on her lap as lilies on a pool.

Must I believe her dead — that this sweet clay,

That even from her picture breathes perfume,

Was carried on a fiery wind away,

Or foully locked in the worm-whispering tomb;

This casket rifled, ribald fingers thrust

‘ Mid all her dainty treasure — is this dust!

Once such a dewy marvel of a girl,

Warm as the sun, and ivory as the moon;

All gone of her, all lost — except this curl

Saved from her head one summer afternoon,

Tied with a little ribbon from her breast —

This only mine, and Death's now all the rest.

Must I believe it true! Bid me not go

Where on her grave the English violets blow;

Nay, leave me — if a dream, indeed, it be —

Still in my dream that she is somewhere she,

Silent, as was her wont. It is a lie —

She is not dead — I did not see her die.