173
SONNET.
Her cheek was pale, and, in life's opening pride,
It omened of the grave—and on her brow
There was a light at times, a radiant glow,
Which told the thoughts within to heaven allied.
Her voice was gentlest music—yet its tone
Thrilled strangely on the listener's startled ear,
And breathed of change and death—and dreams of fear,
O'er fond, glad hearts, were with those accents thrown.
She seldom wept—yet none without a tear
Could gaze upon her, fading like a flower,
Which, timidly unfolding in some hour
Of wintry storm, has met the gale severe,
And yielded all its beauty to the blast,
As the relentless north wind o'er it past.
It omened of the grave—and on her brow
There was a light at times, a radiant glow,
Which told the thoughts within to heaven allied.
Her voice was gentlest music—yet its tone
Thrilled strangely on the listener's startled ear,
And breathed of change and death—and dreams of fear,
O'er fond, glad hearts, were with those accents thrown.
She seldom wept—yet none without a tear
Could gaze upon her, fading like a flower,
Which, timidly unfolding in some hour
Of wintry storm, has met the gale severe,
And yielded all its beauty to the blast,
As the relentless north wind o'er it past.
