I saw his coffin sliding down The yellow sand in yonder town, Where I put on my sorrow's crown. And we returned; in this drear place Never to see him face to face, I thrust aside the living race. Mothers, who mourn with me to-day, Oh, understand me, when I say, I cannot weep, I cannot pray; I gaze upon a hidden store, His books, his toys, the clothes he wore, And cry, "Once more, to me, _once_ more!" Then take, from me, this simple verse, That you may know what I rehearse-- A grief--your and my Universe! BEFORE THE MIRROR. Now like the Lady of Shalott, I dwell within an empty room, And through the day and through the night I sit before an ancient loom. And like the Lady of Shalott I look into a mirror wide, Where shadows come, and shadows go, And ply my shuttle as they glide. Not as she wove the yellow wool, Ulysses' wife, Penelope; By day a queen among her maids, But in the night a woman, she, Who, creeping from her lonely couch, Unraveled all the slender woof; Or, with a torch, she climbed the towers, To fire the fagots on the roof! But weaving with a steady hand The shadows, whether false or true, I put aside a doubt which asks "Among these phantoms what are you?" For not with altar, tomb, or urn, Or long-haired Greek with hollow shield, Or dark-prowed ship with banks of oars, Or banquet in the tented field; Or Norman knight in armor clad, Waiting a foe where four roads meet; Or hawk and hound in bosky dell, Where dame and page in secret greet; Or rose and lily, bud and flower, My web is broidered. Nothing bright Is woven here: the shadows grow Still darker in the mirror's light! And as my web grows darker too, Accursed seems this empty room; For still I must forever weave These phantoms by this ancient loom. "THE SHADOWS ON THE WATER REACH." The shadows on the water reach My shadow on the beach; I see the dark trees on the shore, The fisher's oar. I met her by the sea last night, A little maid in white; I shall never meet her more On the shore. Ho! fisher, hoist your idle sail, And whistle for a gale; My ship is waiting in the bay, Row away! A SUMMER NIGHT. I feel the breath of the summer night, Aromatic fire: The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir With tender desire. The white moths flutter about the lamp, Enamoured with light; And a thousand creatures softly sing A song to the night! But I am alone, and how can I sing Praises to thee? Come, Night! unveil the beautiful soul That waiteth for me. "FAN ME WITH THESE LILIES FAIR." Fan me with these lilies fair, Twine their stems around your arm: Put your feet upon these roses, Then you'll please me to a charm.