A woman scarce in years：
I come to thee a solemn corpse
Which neither feels nor fears.
I have no breath to use in sighs；
They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes
To seal them safe from tears.
Look on me with thine own calm look：
I meet it calm as thou.
No look of thine can change this smile
Or break thy sinful vow：
I tell thee that my poor scorn'd heart
Is of thine earth—thine earth—a part：
It cannot vex thee now.
I have pray'd for thee with bursting sob
When passion's course was free；
I have pray'd for thee with silent lips
In the anguish none could see；
They whisper'd oft 'She sleepeth soft'—
But I only pray'd for thee.
Go to！ I pray for thee no more：
The corpse's tongue is still；
Its folded fingers point to heaven
But point there stiff and chill：
No farther wrong no farther woe
Hath licence from the sin below
Its tranquil heart to thrill.
I charge thee by the living's prayer
And the dead's silentness
To wring from out thy soul a cry
Which God shall hear and bless！
Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand
And pale among the saints I stand
A saint companionless.