Their sweet, unearthly melodies—and there
At the soft twilight hour young angels come
To hover o’er the spot on silver wings,
And mark it with their shining foot-prints.
Thou
Art gone, my child—a sweet and holy bud
Is shaken from the rose-tree of our hopes;
But yet we should not mourn. ’Tis joy to know
That thou hast gone in thy young innocence
And purity and beauty from a dark,