Parted upon her marble brow, they fall neglected there;
Her cold hands folded on her breast, her round arms by her side—
How sad all hearts that knew her well that she so soon has died!
How she is missed from out each spot where she so late has been;
Her silent chamber thrills the heart with keenest throbs of pain;
Her music, too, of voice and string seems ling'ring on the ear,
Only to fill the heart with woe that its sound ye cannot hear.
How long life looked to her; its far and distant day
Seemed like the rosy path she trod, and perfumed all the way;
No tear but those for others' woe had ever dimmed her eye,