Too roselike still, too beautiful, too dear,
The child at rest before its mother lay;
E’en so to pass away,
With its bright smile! Elysium! what wert thou
To her who wept o’er that young slumberer’s brow?
‘Thou hadst no home, green land!
For the fair creature from her bosom gone,
With life’s fresh flowers just opening in its hand,
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown,
Which in its clear eye shone