A portrait of a corpse
Death is uncomely upon your face,
Its pallor pollutes your peaceful lips
And does your countenance such grave disgrace,
Leaving chilled and marbled your fine fingertips
Your face, once gloriously blushed with life
Sleeps now in eternal smiling repose,
The smile that in life could soothe our strife
Is veiled now by black, your form by black clothes.
You slumber now in your black satin dress,
Sleeve and hem adorned with crow-feather trims,
Still your demise may think you a worthless
Bride, thoughtless of your wrongly whitened limbs.
But I waive these matters of form defaced;
they pale to the crime of your mind erased.