Oh, pitiful awaking! What was Adrian's pleasure, <br />That it had earned for him such bitterness? <br />What his soul's pride that its new tender measure <br />Should find its echo in a dirge like this? <br />The chaunters chaunting slow were sable priests <br />Robed for a requiem; the laughters clear, <br />Women that wept; the untasted marriage feasts, <br />Death's banquet spread, and she upon the bier, <br />Natalia's self in her white robe of death, <br />Mourned by the hard eyes of unfriendly men, <br />And with them he, her husband, with set teeth <br />And visage pale which ne'er should smile again <br />In any welcome. Adrian neither moved <br />Nor spoke, but gazed upon the form he loved.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/natalia-s-resurrection-sonnet-xx/
