C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Caroline Wilder Fellowes Paradise (1862–1904)

FOND hands laid sweet Ophelia softly low

In that small straitened grave beneath the yew;

Thenceforth the world a little sadder grew,

Seeing one lover’s footsteps come and go,

And wander in a sudden drear amaze

Through all the winter days.

In darkness lies white-robèd Juliet,

With slender hands close folded on her breast,

On the quick-throbbing heart at length at rest

In the forsaken tomb of Capulet;

And earth hath one more mourning for a bride,

One other grief to hide.

And what of thee, O tender Marguerite?

Long dead thou art, and thy lone grave is deep,

But scant to hide from us thy maiden sleep

Loose held within a moldered winding-sheet;

Thou still awakest, and canst not forget,

And pray’st assoilment yet.

And thou, Francesca? On the open page

Of thy dark history a rose-spray lies,

As though to hide thee from unrighteous eyes,

Whose evil looks are all thy heritage.

Thou art love’s victim. On thy pensive face

Grief finds abiding place.

These died for love’s sake. Many such there be:

Yet best for thee, O little maid, whose vows

Were made last eve ’neath blossomed cherry-boughs,

Were love, though death shall follow. Best for thee!

Love bringeth sorrow, yet unto our need

Love bringeth life indeed.