A ray from its own full happiness, too full to be concealed.
At twilight's calm and silent hour, on the hushed lake's quiet breast,
I saw her gliding joyously, as glide the waves to rest—
And music, too, was on the air, soft as Eolian strain;
But I thought not then that Death was near, a victim soon to gain.
Oh, can it be that this is life!—a thing so frail as this!
Like a lovely flower that only smiles to give one thought of bliss—
That blooms in light and beauty a fleeting summer day,
Then closes up its sweetness, and passes thus away?
How still she lies! her ringlets droop, of pale and soft brown hair—