Menken, Adah Isaacs
Yes, dear love, I died!
You smile because you see no cold, damp cerements of
a lonely grave hiding the youth of my fair face.
No head-stone marks the gold of my poor unburied
But the flaunting poppy covered her red heart in the
Who can hear the slow drip of blood from a dead soul?
No Christ of the Past writes on my laughing brow His
What is that when I have been dead these long weary