The Lily on the Lea

Behold this square of cambric white,
so chastely wrought with lace,
now stained by dawns of pallid light
that bloom upon her face.

A fragile relic, softly pressed
against a faltering breath,
it bears upon its folded breast
the mute red seal of death.

A finer cloth was never made
for lovers’ whispered vows,
for gentle tears the meek betrayed,
or maiden’s trembling brows;

Yet now, consigned to darker arts,
it serves a sterner call—
to cradle what her weary heart
lets slip with each soft fall.

She lifts it with a grace refined,
no tremor in her hand,
as though the rose it has enshrined
were but some reprimand—

A slight rebuke from winter’s reign,
a sigh too cold to keep;
and not the herald of her pain,
nor promise of her sleep.

Her cheek is pale as moonlit snow,
her gaze serenely still;
she meets the world’s encroaching woe
with uncomplaining will.

And in that woven, blushing hue—
so faint, yet so severe—
is writ the truth she long outgrew:
that beauty wanes, but fear—

Fear bows to her, not she to fear;
for though her breath grows thin,
the hand that holds the cloth is clear
in all its quiet din.

Thus stands she, in her slender might,
a lily on the lea,
who bleeds, yet will not yield her right
to noble constancy.