Tell me your race, your name,
O Lady limned as dead, yet as when living fair!
That within this faded frame An unfading beauty wear.
Were you ever known to fame,
Or, more wisely, chose to be Lost in love's obscurity?
We may question, gaze, and guess,
You will never answer ``yes,'' For your sweet lips are closed by Death's relentlessness.
Yes, you were chill before Some thoughtful hand to us your loveliness bequeathed.
You already then no more Moved, or spoke, or felt, or breathed,
But an eternal silence wore.
Dank and limp your ample hair,
And your eyelids kept the stare Of a face that cannot speak;
And, where lived the rose's streak,
There only lingered then the lily in your cheek.
Was it your own strange prayer That you, in death, should be in living garb arrayed,
And your aspect seem as fair,
Fanciful and undecayed,
As when life and love were there?
No! it was no idle whim:
Death was in love with you, and you in love with Him.
And when you, with tender dread,
All to Him surrenderëd,
He took care you should retain All of life except its pain,
And with unabated charms Lie fast asleep in your unsleeping lover's arms.
