At Night Illustrator William Holman Hunt Holman Hunt, William Metadata research and editing DVPP Project Team Fukushima Kailey University of Victoria Digital Victorian Periodical Poetry Project Victoria, BC, Canada

In the public domain

 Once a Week 1 3 56 102 “ Dying ? You do but jest ! text-transform: uppercase; font-size: 115%; letter-spacing: 0.05em; word-spacing: 0.25em; margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 4em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1.25em; margin-left: -0.6em; font-style: italic; font-variant: small-caps; letter-spacing: 0.05em; display: none; display: inline; display: block; width: 50%; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; font-size: 1rem; width: 47em; Auto-tagged instances of cross-stanza rhyme based on existing labels. Column work. Set status to 'verified'. Created pom_281_incid_poem rendition to reset font-sizes. Added useful rendition elements in anticipation of CSS reworking. Marking specific renditions as incidental. Handle base cases of incidental titles. Extracted small-caps style into rendition element using XSLT. Re-organized change elements in descending date order. Altered @rhyme on stanza 3. Set status to 'proofed'. Changed CSS to follow updated protocols and maintain consistency across periodical/year. Added column breaks. Deleted rhyme tags on fast/door and pang/heart. Added illustration information: catRefs, figDesc, and keywords.
At Night.
A woman is lying in a bed. A man is bent over beside the bed and is embracing the woman. 1/3 page illustration contained within a single-ruled border.
“ Dying ? You do but jest ! You smile in the dark, I know ! Surely I should know best How the quick pulses go. Lay your hand on my cheek : Feel, though you see not, the red. Why, in another week, I shall have left my bed ! “ It was being so long alone— So sick of the world’s vain strife, Uncared for, and unknown, That sapp’d the springs of life ! You have given a world of love : Nay, soften that anxious brow ; Is not our God above ? He will not summon me now. “ The summer is coming fast ; I can scent the rich perfume Of the lilac by the door, And the delicate apple-bloom. Where shall our year be spent ? I long for the hills of Spain— We will go to Rome, for Lent, Then back to our home again. “ O, what is this sudden pang ? Is it growing darker, Will ? Heavily goes my heart,— It is almost standing still ! Raise me—I cannot breathe— Pray for me, love,” she said. “ Father, into Thy hands !” And my young wife was dead.