By Her White Bed

By her white bed I muse a little space: She fell asleep--not very long ago,-- And yet the grass was here and not the snow-- The leaf, the bud, the blossom, and--her face!-- Midsummer's heaven above us, and the grace Of Lovers own day, from dawn to afterglow; The fireflies' glimmering, and the sweet and low Plaint of the whip-poor-wills, and every place In thicker twilight for the roses' scent. Then _night_.--She slept--in such tranquility, I walk atiptoe still, nor _dare_ to weep, Feeling, in all this hush, she rests content-- That though God stood to wake her for me, she Would mutely plead: 'Nay, Lord! Let _him_ so sleep.'