Page:Records of Woman.pdf/219

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Yet still a tender crimson glow Its cheek's pure marble dyed— 'Twas but the light's faint streaming flow Thro' roses heap'd beside.

I stoop’d—the smooth round arm was chill, The soft lip's breath was fled, And the bright ringlets hung so still— The lovely child was dead!

"Alas!" I cried, "fair faded thing!   Thou hast wrung bitter tears, And thou hast left a wo, to cling    Round yearning hearts for years!"

But then a voice came sweet and low— I turn'd, and near me sate A woman with a mourner's brow, Pale, yet not desolate.