He and She
“She
is dead!” they said to him, “come away;
Kiss
her and leave her-thy love is clay!”
They
smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair;
On
her forehead of stone they laid it fair;
With
a tender touch they closed up well
The
sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;
About
her brows and beautiful face
They
tied her veil and her marriage lace;
And
over her bosom they crossed her hands,
“Come
away!’ they said; “God understands.”
And
they held their breath till they left the room,
With
a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom.
But
he who loved her too well to dread
The
sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,
He
lighted his lamp and took the key
And
turned it-alone again, he and she.
He
and she; yet she would not smile,
Though
he called her the name she loved erewhile.
He
and she; still she did not move
To
any one passionate whisper of love.
Then
he said: “Cold lips and breast without breath,
Is
there no voice, no language of death,
“Dumb
to the ear and still to the sense,
But
to heart and to soul distinct, intense?
“See
now; I will listen with soul, not ear.
What
was the secret of dying, dear?
“Was
it the infinite wonder of all
That
you ever could let life’s flower fall;
“Or
was it a greater marvel to feel
The
perfect calm o’er the agony steal?
“Was
the miracle greater to find how deep
Beyond
all dreams sank downward that sleep?
“Did
life roll back its records, dear;
And
show, as they say it does, past things clear?
“And
was it the innermost part of the bliss
To
find out so, what wisdom love is?
“O
perfect dead! O dead most dear,
I
hold the breath of my soul to hear!
“There
must be pleasure in dying, sweet,
To
make you so placid from head to feet!
“I
would tell you, darling, if I were dead,
And
‘t were your hot tears upon my brow shed-
“I
would say, though the Angel of Death had laid
His
sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.
“You
should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,
Which
of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,
“The
very strangest and suddenest thing
Of
all surprises that dying must bring.”
Ah,
foolish world! O most kind dead!
Though
she told me, who will believe it was said?
Who
will believe that he heard her say,
With
the sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way;
“The
utmost wonder is this- I hear,
And
see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;
“And
am your angel, who was your bride,
And
know that, though dead, I have never died.”
Sir Edwin Arnold
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