They gave her back again:
They never asked to see her face;
But gazed upon her vacant place,
Moaning, like those in pain.
There was a brief hot thirst;
A thirsting of the heart for streams
Which never more save in sweet dreams
From that lost fount should burst.
There was a frightful cry,
As if the whole great earth were dead;
Yet was one arrow only sped,
One, only, called to die.
Then all grew calm as sleep;
And they in household ways once more
Did go: the anguish half was o'er,
For they had learned to weep.
They stood about her bed,
And whispered low beneath their cloud;
For she might hear them speaking loud--
She was so near, they said.
Softly her pillow pressing,
With reverent brows they mutely lay;
They scarcely missed the risen clay
In her pure soul's caressing.
Last, from their eyes were driven
Those heart-drops, lest--so spoke their fears--
Her robes all heavy with their tears
Might clog her flight to Heaven!