With such a weight of rest!
Yet still a tender crimson glow
Its cheeks’ pure marble dyed—
’Twas but the light’s faint streaming flow
Through roses heap’d beside.
I stoop’d—the smooth round arm was chill,
The soft lips’ breath was fled,
And the bright ringlets hung so still—
The lovely child was dead!
“Alas!” I cried, “fair faded thing!