Home In War-Time

SHE turn’d the fair page with her fairer hand—  
More fair and frail than it was wont to be—  
O’er each remember’d thing he lov’d to see  
She linger’d, and as with a fairy’s wand  
Enchanted it to order. Oft she fann’d
New motes into the sun; and as a bee  
Sings thro’ a brake of bells, so murmur’d she,  
And so her patient love did understand  
The reliquary room. Upon the sill  
She fed his favorite bird. “Ah, Robin, sing!
He loves thee.” Then she touches a sweet string  
Of soft recall, and towards the Eastern hill  
Smiles all her soul—for him who cannot hear  
The raven croaking at his carrion ear.