"For stars are not," she'd say,
"More wonderful than they."
And now she sleeps her heavy, heavy sleep.

Immortal hope shone on that brow,
Above whose waning forms
Go softly real worms.
Surely it was a cruel blow
Which cut my Darling's life
Sharply, as with a knife;
I hate my own that lets me grow
As grows a bitter root
From which rank poisons shoot
Upon the grave where she is lying low.

Ah, hapless fate! Could it be just,
That her young life should play
Its easy, natural way;
Then, with an unexpected thrust,
Be hence thus rudely sent;
Even as her feelings blent
With those around, whose love would trust
Her willing power to bless,
For all their happiness?
Alone she moulders into common dust.

Small birds twitter and peck the weeds
That wave above this bed
Where my dear Love lies dead:
They flutter and burst the globed seeds,