Page:Keepsake 1832.pdf/2

Rh

not, weep not, that in the spring We have to make a grave; The flowers will grow, the birds will sing, The early roses wave: And make the sod we 're spreading fair, For her who sleeps below; We might not bear to lay her there, In winter frost and snow.

We never hoped to keep her long, When but a fairy child, With dancing step, and birdlike song, And eyes that only smiled; A something shadowy and frail Was even in her mirth; She look'd a flower that one rough gale Would bear away from earth.

There was too clear and blue a light Within her radiant eyes, They were too beautiful, too bright, Too like their native skies: Too changeable the rose which shed Its colour on her face, Now burning with a passionate red, Now with just one faint trace.