I LEFT thee last, a child at heart, <br /> A woman scarce in years: <br />I come to thee, a solemn corpse <br /> Which neither feels nor fears. <br />I have no breath to use in sighs; <br />They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes <br /> To seal them safe from tears. <br /> <br />Look on me with thine own calm look: <br /> I meet it calm as thou. <br />No look of thine can change this smile, <br /> Or break thy sinful vow: <br />I tell thee that my poor scorn'd heart <br />Is of thine earth--thine earth--a part: <br /> It cannot vex thee now. <br /> <br />I have pray'd for thee with bursting sob <br /> When passion's course was free; <br />I have pray'd for thee with silent lips <br /> In the anguish none could see; <br />They whisper'd oft, 'She sleepeth soft'-- <br /> But I only pray'd for thee. <br /> <br />Go to! I pray for thee no more: <br /> The corpse's tongue is still; <br />Its folded fingers point to heaven, <br /> But point there stiff and chill: <br />No farther wrong, no farther woe <br />Hath licence from the sin below <br /> Its tranquil heart to thrill. <br /> <br />I charge thee, by the living's prayer, <br /> And the dead's silentness, <br />To wring from out thy soul a cry <br /> Which God shall hear and bless! <br />Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand, <br />And pale among the saints I stand, <br /> A saint companionless.<br /><br />Elizabeth Barrett Browning<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rosalind-s-scroll/
