A Leave-Taking.

She will not smile; She will not stir; I marvel while I look on her. The lips are chilly And will not speak; The ghost of a lily In either cheek. Her hair—ah me! Her hair—her hair! How helplessly My hands go there! But my caresses Meet not hers, O golden tresses That thread my tears! I kiss the eyes On either lid, Where her love lies Forever hid. I cease my weeping And smile and say: I will be sleeping Thus, some day!