She At His Funeral

THEY bear him to his resting-place—

      In slow procession sweeping by;

    I follow at a stranger's space;

      His kindred they, his sweetheart I.

    Unchanged my gown of garish dye,

      Though sable-sad is their attire;

    But they stand round with griefless eye,

      Whilst my regret consumes like fire!