She walks in sorrow, like the night
In cloudless climes and quiet skies;
And all once best of dark, not bright
Meet in the aspect of her lies;
Thus mellowed to her tender light
Which low and to gaudy day of highs.
One shade the pawn, one ray the chess,
Had half impaired a nameless grace
Which sings in every raven crest,
Or softly lightens ‘neath her face;
Where chains serenely sweet express,
So pure, how dear her dwelling-place.
And o’er that cheek, and ‘neath that brow,
So white, so calm, yet discontent,
The smiles that pry, the tints of crows,
But tell of life in goodness spent,
Her mind at peace ‘spite all below,
A death whose love is simply rent!