A Threnody Poem by Emily Pfeiffer

'Woman, what is't you bury here
In earth which is not consecrate,
And rising, leave without a tear?'
'I bury love more fierce than hate,
Love that has murdered joy and sleep,
Love that at last has met his fate.'
'And can you hold dead love so cheap,
That having slain him you fare free,
Nor pause beside his grave to weep?'
'Nay, love is slain, but not by me;
God knoweth I have fought a fight
To keep him, but it could not be.
'God knoweth how, by day and night,
I've feared to meet his truth in face,—
I could not trust its saving light.
'In vain I laboured to abase
The upward glance of love's proud eyes
That dared not look on his disgrace.
'Long years I fed sick love with lies,
I was so loth from him to part;
He dieth hard, but still he dies.
'And so I cast him from my heart,
That lightened of his weary weight,
Rises as wakened with a start.
'I look around; the hour is late,
But on my life a nameless peace
Has fallen, and my poor estate
'Is changed, all changed with love's surcease;
Gone the long shame that bowed my head;—
Truth to my soul has brought release.
'And now I have no tears to shed,
They fell so fast on dying love
That none are left to weep love dead.'