Page:Poems (IA poemslowell00lowe).pdf/111

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Rosaline.
87
I saw my mother's dying bed,I heard her bless me, and I shedCool tears,—but, lo! the ghastly deadStared me to madness, Rosaline!
And then, amid the silent night,I screamed with horrible delight,And in my brain an awful lightDid seem to crackle, Rosaline!It is my curse! sweet memories fallFrom me like snow,—and only allOf that one night, like cold worms, crawlMy doomed heart over, Rosaline!
Thine eyes are shut: they never moreWill leap thy gentle words beforeTo tell the secret o'er and o'erThou couldst not smother, Rosaline!Thine eyes are shut; they will not shineWith happy tears, or, through the vineThat hid thy casement, beam on mine,Sunful with gladness, Rosaline
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