By Her White Bed

By her white bed I muse a little space:
  She fell asleep--not very long ago,--
  And yet the grass was here and not the snow--
  The leaf, the bud, the blossom, and--her face!--
  Midsummer's heaven above us, and the grace
  Of Lovers own day, from dawn to afterglow;
  The fireflies' glimmering, and the sweet and low
  Plaint of the whip-poor-wills, and every place
  In thicker twilight for the roses' scent.
  Then _night_.--She slept--in such tranquility,
  I walk atiptoe still, nor _dare_ to weep,
  Feeling, in all this hush, she rests content--
  That though God stood to wake her for me, she
  Would mutely plead: "Nay, Lord!  Let _him_ so sleep."