Anna Gordon Keown
My thought shall never be that you are dead:
Who laughed so lately in this quiet place.
The dear and deep-eyed humour of that face
Held something ever living, in Death's stead.
Scornful I hear the flat things they have said
And all their piteous platitudes of pain.
I laugh! I laugh! - For you will come again -
This heart would never beat if you were dead.
The world's adrowse in twilight hushfulness,