Transplanted. When last I saw her, all cold and white, On her maiden bed extended, It seemed to me that with the light Of her life my own was ended. It seemed to me that I could not bear The burden of life without her ; To see the sunshine, to feel the air That could never more play about her— Lovingly play round her lovely head, Giving fond and playful kisses, Making the rose on her cheek more red, Stirring her sun-gilt tresses. I felt as though I could never bear The ceaseless pain and pressure Of endless days, when she might not share One sorrow of mine, or pleasure. Stark and pallid and cold she lay, Not she—the soul-warmed woman— But the dreadful frigid image of clay That with her had nothing in common. Among the flowers about the bier I noted a large-eyed blossom, That looked at me through a dewy tear As it lay on her lifeless bosom. A large white daisy. I kissed its face, In her cold dead hand I laid it, And I bid it nevermore leave that place, Though the breath of the grave should fade it. I fancied that she would feel it there, And that when she was in heaven, She would send me a sign that the bond which here So bound us should not be riven. Perhaps a childish and wild belief ; But when in some hopeless sorrow That rejects all thought of a common relief, The heart is fain to borrow From the realms of fancy some hope, some dream, It may be some superstition, That, however childish or wild, will seem Like a real Heaven-sent vision. And so with me. When the friendly night O’er my sleepless pillow lingers, Yon star, I think, is the daisy white I placed in her lifeless fingers.