The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets


by Ethelwyn Wetherald



 

THE BRIDE OF DEATH.



BUT tell us of the bride, we said.
     “So one with him she seemed to be,
The bridegroom’s kiss upon her lips
     Lay almost visibly.

“Her dress?  Oh, roses, roses white,

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     That heaped the hands, the neck, the breast
Of her, the whitest rose of all
     That ever bridegroom pressed.

“A glad look?  Yea, the raptured look
     Of one that drops from out her slim

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Sweet hands all other gifts of life
     To hold them out to him.

“Her dower? She brought him nothing save
     Her loveliness, her life, her breath;
He gave her wealth. And title? Yea,

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     The old, old name of Death.” [Page 123]