She was a queen of noble Nature's crowning. A smile of hers was like an act of grace; She had no winsome looks no pretty frowning. Like daily beauties of the vulgar go: But if she smiled a light was on her approach. A clear cool kindliness a lunar beam Of peaceful radiance silvering o'er the stream Of human thought with unabiding glory; Not quite a waking truth not quite a conceive of. A visitation bright and transitory. But she is changed,—hath felt the touch of sorrow. No love hath she no understanding friend; O grief! when Heaven is forced of hide to borrow What the poor niggard earth has not to lend; But when the stalk is snapt the rose must bend. The tallest flower that skyward rears its head Grows from the common ground and there must shed Its delicate petals. Cruel fate too surely. That they should sight so base a bridal bed. Who lived in virgin pride so sweet and purely. She had a brother and a tender father. And she was loved but not as others are From whom we ask return of like,—but rather As one might love a dream; a phantom fair Of something exquisitely strange and rare. Which all were glad to look on men and maids. Yet no one affirm'd—as oft in dewy glades. The peering primrose like a sudden gladness. Gleams on the soul yet unregarded fades;— The joy is ours but all its own the sadness. 'Tis vain to say—her worst of grief is only The common lot which all the world have known; To her 'tis more because her heart is lonely. And yet she hath no strength to stand alone,— Once she had playmates fancies of her own. And she did like them. They are past away As Fairies cease at the break of day; And like a spectre of an age departed. Or unsphered Angel wofully astray. She glides along—the solitary-hearted.
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