Motionless, Upon Her Bed

MOTIONLESS, upon her bed,
By pale roses garlanded,
Little Dorothea lies,
Incommunicably wise
With the wisdom of the dead.
’T was but yesterday she wed:
Now her golden, girlish head
Wears another bridal guise,
Were her slumber mine instead,
She could not be comforted:
Streaming tears would blind her eyes—
Yet, when Dorothea dies,
Silent I wait, with doubt and dread,