The Last Look

Her face was like an opening rose,
So bright to look upon:
But now it is like fallen snows,
As cold, as dead, as wan.

Heaven lit with stars is more like her
Than is this empty crust:
Deaf, dumb, and blind, it cannot stir,

But crumbles back to dust.
No flower be taken from her bed
For me, no lock be shorn:
I give her up, the early dead,

The dead, the newly born.
If I remember her, no need
Of formal tokens set;
Of hollow token-lies indeed

No need, if I forget.