COME, watch with me the dead, cold-carven face,
Fair-lidded and quite dumb,
All shadow-girded in a dim, still place ;
Nay, follow me, and come.
Why pause ? Her lips can say no suppliant word
Nor any bitter thing.
She lieth silently, poor wearied bird,
With wearied, folded wing.
Passionate sorrow or stern scorn alike
Were nothingness to her.
Though you should fondly kiss or cruelly strike,
She will not breathe or stir.
Death’s hands, to her bowed spirit having been
Such rapture of release,
Are lifted o’er the memory of her sin,
And softly plead for peace.
Sanction their pleading with one sacred kiss,
And after, while you live,
Learn how all-perfect a revenge it is
Utterly to forgive !

Edgar Fawcett.