Menella Bute Smedley

A Dirge

Let her rest!
Weary were her days, oppress'd
By vain cravings to be blest.
Let her sleep!
Slumber holy, dreamless, deep,
Cover eyes that waked to weep.
Let her rest!
Death is spread upon her breast,
Like soft wings that shade a nest.
Let her sleep!
False and cruel love, to keep
Weeping,—she hath ceased to weep.
Let her die!
All her hope beneath the sky
Was in her mortality.