LITTLE FANNY.
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LITTLE FANNY.
She is not dead—she would not die And leave us nothing but regret;It is but sleep that shrouds that eye,— I know she's living yet:What have I done amiss, or thou,That God should steal our blossom now?
Her cheeks are cold and white as snow, Her lips lie languidly apart;But I can hear the warm blood flow,— The music of her heart!And yet those hands are stiff and chill,—I never saw them lie so still.
Her rest is very, very deep; So deep, her bosom scarcely heaves;She seems a flower just gone asleep, Among whose folded leavesThere lingers a faint, odorous breath:—Dear God, if this indeed is death!
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They tell me thou art free from pain, They say our parting is but brief;But till we meet in Heaven again, Where shall I hide my grief?Priest, I will cease this vain regret,If thou wilt teach me to forget.
