Must I Believe This Beauty Wholly Gone That In Her Picture Here So Deathless Seems, And Must I Henceforth Speak Of Her As One Tells Of Some Face Of Legend Or Of Dreams, Still Here And There Remembered - Scarce Believed, Or Held The Fancy Of A Heart Bereaved. So Beautiful She - Was; Ah! "Was," Say I, Yet Doubt Her Dead - I Did Not See Her Die. Only By Others Borne Across The Sea Came The Incredible Wild Blasphemy They Called Her Death - As Though It Could Be True Of Such An Immortality As You! True Of These Eyes That From Her Picture Gaze, Serene, Star-Steadfast, As The Heaven'S Own Eyes; Of That Deep Bosom, White As Hawthorn Sprays, Where My World-Weary Head Forever Lies; True Of These Quiet Hands, So Marble-Cool, Still On Her Lap As Lilies On A Pool. Must I Believe Her Dead - That This Sweet Clay, That Even From Her Picture Breathes Perfume, Was Carried On A Fiery Wind Away, Or Foully Locked In The Worm-Whispering Tomb; This Casket Rifled, Ribald Fingers Thrust 'Mid All Her Dainty Treasure - Is This Dust! Once Such A Dewy Marvel Of A Girl, Warm As The Sun, And Ivory As The Moon; All Gone Of Her, All Lost - Except This Curl Saved From Her Head One Summer Afternoon, Tied With A Little Ribbon From Her Breast - This Only Mine, And Death'S Now All The Rest. Must I Believe It True! Bid Me Not Go Where On Her Grave The English Violets Blow; Nay, Leave Me - If A Dream, Indeed, It Be - Still In My Dream That She Is Somewhere She, Silent, As Was Her Wont. It Is A Lie - She Is Not Dead - I Did Not See Her Die.