THE DYING GIRL.
11
There round our home the rose with crimson dye
Bared its young heart of beauty to the eye,
There sprang the violets, and the lilies there,
Pale nuns of nature, bowed their heads in prayer;
The jasmine, sweetest of the race of flowers,
Breathed its full soul of fragrance in the bowers;
Above the window of our little room
The honeysuckle hung in clustering bloom,
Before our door the bright blue streamlet played,
Leaping and dimpling in the light and shade.
And the tall trees of deep and solemn green
Upon the far horizon seemed to lean
Like holy watchers of the golden sky,
The sentinels of immortality.
Bared its young heart of beauty to the eye,
There sprang the violets, and the lilies there,
Pale nuns of nature, bowed their heads in prayer;
The jasmine, sweetest of the race of flowers,
Breathed its full soul of fragrance in the bowers;
Above the window of our little room
The honeysuckle hung in clustering bloom,
Before our door the bright blue streamlet played,
Leaping and dimpling in the light and shade.
And the tall trees of deep and solemn green
Upon the far horizon seemed to lean
Like holy watchers of the golden sky,
The sentinels of immortality.
And there, O sister, lay the burial ground,
A lonely spot where broke no rude, harsh sound,
And where the mournful grave-stones rose to keep
Their silent vigils o'er each place of sleep,
And where at times we wander'd with hushed breath
To view the sad memorials of death.
A lonely spot where broke no rude, harsh sound,
And where the mournful grave-stones rose to keep
Their silent vigils o'er each place of sleep,
And where at times we wander'd with hushed breath
To view the sad memorials of death.
