Her Portrait Immortal

Must I believe this beauty wholly gone         That in her picture here so deathless seems,     And must I henceforth speak of her as one         Tells of some face of legend or of dreams,     Still here and there remembered - scarce believed,     Or held the fancy of a heart bereaved.     So beautiful she - was; ah! "was," say I,         Yet doubt her dead - I did not see her die.     Only by others borne across the sea      Came the incredible wild blasphemy     They called her death - as though it could be true     Of such an immortality as you!     True of these eyes that from her picture gaze,         Serene, star-steadfast, as the heaven's own eyes;     Of that deep bosom, white as hawthorn sprays,         Where my world-weary head forever lies;     True of these quiet hands, so marble-cool,     Still on her lap as lilies on a pool.     Must I believe her dead - that this sweet clay,         That even from her picture breathes perfume,     Was carried on a fiery wind away,         Or foully locked in the worm-whispering tomb;     This casket rifled, ribald fingers thrust     'Mid all her dainty treasure - is this dust!     Once such a dewy marvel of a girl,         Warm as the sun, and ivory as the moon;     All gone of her, all lost - except this curl         Saved from her head one summer afternoon,     Tied with a little ribbon from her breast -     This only mine, and Death's now all the rest.     Must I believe it true! Bid me not go     Where on her grave the English violets blow;     Nay, leave me - if a dream, indeed, it be -     Still in my dream that she is somewhere she,     Silent, as was her wont. It is a lie -     She is not dead - I did not see her die.