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At Last

O mother, open the window wide
And let the daylight in;
The hills grow darker to my sight,
And thought s begin to swim.

And, mother dear, take my young son,
(Since I was born of thee),
And care for all his little ways,
And nurse him on thy knee.

And, mother, wash my pale, pale hands,
And then bind up my feet;
My body may no longer rest
Out of its winding-sheet.

And, mother, find three berries red
And pluck them from the stalk,
And burn them at the first cockcrow,
That my spirit may not walk.

And, mother dear, beak a willow wand,
And if the sap be even,
Then save it for my lover's sake,
And he'll know my souls in heaven.

And, mother, when the big tears fall,
(And fall, God knows, they may)
Tell him I died of my great love,
And my dying heart was gay.

And, mother dear, when the sun has set
And the pale church grass waves,
Then carry me through the dim twilight
And hide me among the graves.

--Elizabeth Siddal