And oh, to think the sun can shine, The birds can sing, the flowers can bloom, And she, whose soul was all divine, Be darkly mouldering in the tomb: That o’er her head the night-wind sighs, And the sad cypress droops and moans; That night has veiled her glorious eyes, And silence hushed her heavenly tones: That those sweet lips no more can smile, Nor pity’s tender shadows chase, With many a gentle, child-like wile, The rippling laughter o’er her face: That dust is on the burnished gold That floated round her royal head; That her great heart is dead and cold— Her form of fire and beauty dead! Roll on, gray earth and shining star, And coldly mock our dreams of bliss; There is no glory left to mar, Nor any grief so black as this!
Adelaide Neilson
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