Synopsis

Now, should you find me lie, at dawn. With pulses still, and colour fled ; With waxen features pinched and drawn. Say not, " This man is dead," Until my lady draws anear And, gazing in my vacant eyes, Shall softly whisper, " I am here, O love, awake, arise ; ** Until, as leaning o'er my face. Her golden hair shall touch my own ; Until her fingers interlace My fingers, nerveless grown ; Until her hand, so soft and white, She lays upon my whiter brow.