LAY the pallid face of the dead Softly down on her quiet bed; Fold the ringless, pale hands to rest, Mid the lilies asleep on her breast.
A maiden old, and no longer fair, With silver glimpses in nut-brown hair; Now softly we close the coffin-lid, So that her sorrowful smile be hid.
She gave of her love its purest flame To th' ideal lover who never came; Mother-love stifled, in grief forlorn, For little children that never were born.
A soul to dare, and, seeking the light, Hopelessly longing to test its might; A gentle heart 'neath the martyr's breast,— Her martyrdom, that she found, no quest.
The saddest tears are the unshed tears; The Unknown gives us the wildest fears; Unsung forever the saddest song; What has never been done is the deepest wrong.
Perhaps, in that distant region blest, She rests on her unknown lover's breast; And, in the glow of a heavenly morn, Caresses the children that never were born.
