In Memoriam Puellulæ Dulcissimæ. - D. P. W.

Ah! what is left for love to prize?
A little dress or trinket toy
Which once could make the innocent eyes
Brighten with glimpses of the joy
The woman feels in being fair —
A chair left sadly in its place —
A little tress of chestnut hair —
A little likeness of her face,
Ah! vacant of the living light
Which magic sunbeam never gave —
And, on our city's northern height,
Across a thousand streets — a grave.
No more, no more. O fruitless pain
Of birth and nurture, wasted years
Of care, and watches watched in vain!
O idle hopes! O idle fears!

'Tis well to tell us she is blest,
That never sin or grief shall break
The quiet of her perfect rest.

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poem by Alfred John Church from Littell's Living Age, Volume 173, Issue 2240 (1887)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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