The thought of night consoled him. To his vision <br />Natalia was dead only in false death, <br />The sleeping treason of some false misprision, <br />Some silent mystery of shortened breath, <br />Not dead in truth for ever and to him, <br />Or to that other life his dream foretold:-- <br />Her murderers these. And in his heart the whim <br />Rose he should draw her from her cincture cold, <br />And set his lips upon her lips once more, <br />And free her spirit thus from its dull trance, <br />And all should be between them as before, <br />Only more dear for her deliverance. <br />And darkly there he smiled as, their work done, <br />The mourners left him with their dead alone.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/natalia-s-resurrection-sonnet-xxii/
