Earth scarce had mourned some lesser beauty—thou,
Celestial maid!
Mid all didst wear a so unearthly brow,
And thou—decayed!
The beauteous thought of thee which, ray-like, slept,
In our pure love,
Became a memory which we have kept
To grieve above.
Gone, like the withered pride of early Spring—
Like sweet songs, o'er—