Bên kia cõi sống After death

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.