Dear one, while bending o’er thy couch of rest,
I’ve looked on thee as thou wert calmly sleeping,
And wished—Oh! couldst thou ever be as blest
As now—when haply all thy cause of weeping
Is, for a truant bird, or faded rose;
Though these light griefs call forth the ready tear,
They cast no shadow o’er thy soft repose,
No trace of care, or sorrow, lingers here.
With rosy cheek, upon the pillow prest,
To me thou seemest a cherub, pure and fair,