THEY bear him to his resting-place—

In slow procession sweeping by; I follow at a stranger’s space; His kindred they, his sweetheart I. Unchanged my gown of garish dye, Though sable-sad is their attire; But they stand round with griefless eye, Whilst my regret consumes like fire!

187–.

[Picture: Sketch of open book with two letters hand-written on left-hand page]