by Christine Rossetti
The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes, rosemary, and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned over me, thinking that I slept
And could not hear him; but I heard him
'Poor child, poor child': and as he turned
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my
He did not love me living; but once
He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he is still warm though I am cold.