Disturb her not – she is not far;
she hears our voices – have no doubt.
Death does not her beauty mar –
not blow her candle wholly out.

Her features almost break in movement –
her cheeks still hold their hues of pink;
her lids might open any moment –
her spirit hovers round the brink.

She’s gone not to some far-off land –
this room itself rests her from strife;
disturb her not then – as we stand
not by a sight of death, but life.