The White Lady

I cannot rest, I cannot rest
In strait and shiny wood,
My woven hands upon my breast—
The dead are all so good!

The earth is cool across their eyes;
They lie there quietly.
But I am neither old nor wise,
They do not welcome me.

Where never I walked alone before
I wander in the weeds;
And people scream and bar the door,
And rattle at their beads.

We cannot rest, we never rest
Within a narrow bed
Who still must love the living best—
Who hate the drowsy dead!