She wakes, she breathes, she rises from her bed, <br />That bed of death where she has lain so long; <br />The flowers they set there fall from her fair head <br />Withered, while she, sweet soul, has known no wrong. <br />Forth from her grave miraculously white, <br />And all unstained by the dull earth's decay, <br />Natalia rises, a last star of night, <br />Just as the dawn is breaking into day. <br />Upon the stones they kneeled them down and prayed, <br />For hearts grow soft with a long danger past, <br />And both were young and for a while dismayed <br />At their great joy nor deemed they held it fast; <br />Then, having kissed and wept, they turned to go <br />Through the dark church with faltering steps and slow.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/natalia-s-resurrection-sonnet-xxvii/
