On Seeing an Open Casket

Disturb her not - she is not far;

she hears our voices - have no doubt.

Death does not her beauty mar -

not blow her candle wholly out.

Her features almost break in movement -

her cheeks still hold their hues of pink;

her lids might open any moment -

her spirit hovers round the brink.

She's gone not to some far-off land -

this room itself rests her from strife;

disturb her not then - as we stand

not by a sight of death, but life.