At Night's High Noon

Under the heavy sod she lies—
I saw them close her beautiful eyes—
She lies so still, and she lies so deep,
That all of them think she is fast asleep.

I, only, know at the night's high noon
She comes from the grave they made too soon:
I see the light of her cold, bright eyes,
As I see the stars in the wintry skies.

The scornful gleam of an old surprise
Is still alive in those wonderful eyes—
And the mocking lips are ripe and red,
Smiling, still, at the words I said.

She mocks me now, as she mocked me then:—
'Dead is dead,' say the world of men—
But I know when the stars of midnight rise
She shines on me with her cold, bright eyes.