Sonnet
The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.He leaned above me, thinking that I slept And could not hear him; but I heard him say: 'Poor child, poor child:' and as he turned awayCame a deep silence, and I knew he wept.He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head: He did not love me living; but once dead He pitied me; and very sweet it isTo know he still is warm though I am cold.