After Death – Christina Rossetti

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept

    And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may

Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,

Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.

He leaned above me, thinking that I slept

    And could not hear him; but I heard him say,

    ‘Poor child, poor child’: and as he turned away

Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.

He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold

    That hid my face, or take my hand in his,

         Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:

         He did not love me living; but once dead

    He pitied me; and very sweet it is

To know he still is warm though I am cold.


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