Then mark’d the flowers that, while she stoop’d,
E’en yet made sweet her last-brought wreath:
Those full-blown all had dropt or droop’d;
The buds alone bloom’d bright beneath.
“Why leave, O God,” was then her moan,
“My widow’d soul still more alone?
Why wrest from life the last thing dear?
What harm that love should linger here?”
And lo, the neighboring spire above
Rang forth its evening call to prayer;