The White Lady

I cannot rest, I cannot rest
In straight 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 pompous dead!