The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept 
And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may 
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, 
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. 
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept 
And could not hear him; but I heard him say, 
‘Poor child, poor child’: and as he turned away 
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. 
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold 
That hid my face, or take my hand in his, 
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head: 
He did not love me living; but once dead 
He pitied me; and very sweet it is 
To know he still is warm though I am cold.