she said

in the dead of night,
last be,
heard a lady in sorrow sing,
that if young she did die,
buried deep be she,
a body to dress in white,
laid in roses filled bed,
drown in the cold morning river waters,
watching by an awaking sun,
and by standing trees,
and what a send off it be,
drifting on that sparkling waters,
bid goodbye in love songs,
a young death,
dirges from sweet little birds,
perched on branches away,
melodies of sorrow,
barely dreamt of,
and only if she could tell,
that pain in them that watch her go,
the broken hearts left,
to awaken and comfort she would wish,
but death is cold,
a reaper with no soul,
friends to make the waving hands,
only happiness to wish,