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."