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James Whitcomb Riley - A Leave-Taking
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She will not smile;
    She will not stir;
  I marvel while
    I look on her.
      The lips are chilly
        And will not speak;
      The ghost of a lily
        In either cheek.

  Her hair--ah me!
    Her hair--her hair!
  How helplessly
    My hands go there!
      But my caresses
        Meet not hers,
      O golden tresses
        That thread my tears!

  I kiss the eyes
    On either lid,
  Where her love lies
    Forever hid.
      I cease my weeping
        And smile and say:
      I will be sleeping
        Thus, some day!
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