Beauty, and all its fading hues of clay,
The tints that are not, but were yesterday!
The eyes whose light enkindled many a flame—
The lips that breathed in love some cherished name—
The fair slight hand—the cheek so like the rose,
The form where Grace herself had sought repose—
The music voice—the shadowy locks and all
That touched the heart—or glittered in the ball;
These all have been—but Death has claimed them now—
The look of scorn—the proud and lofty brow—