A Leave-Taking

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She will not smile;
  She will not stir;
  I marvel while
  I look on her.
  The lips are chilly
  And will not speak;
  The ghost of a lily
  In either cheek.

  Her hair--ah me!
  Her hair--her hair!
  How helplessly
  My hands go there!
  But my caresses
  Meet not hers,
  O golden tresses
  That thread my tears!

  I kiss the eyes
  On either lid,
  Where her love lies
  Forever hid.
  I cease my weeping
  And smile and say:
  I will be sleeping
  Thus, some day!

© James Whitcomb Riley