Classic Poem

Oh! sing a song; in low, soft notes,
Tender, and sweet, in sad—
For her who lies all pallid, still,
In her last garments clad.

A fair young bride of but a day—
(Sing low, sing soft and low)—
And yet, and yet her bed must be
Under the drifting snow.

Under the drifting snow—ah, me!—
To lie in her frozen sleep,
While love, bereft, with empty arms,
Is left to wake and weep.

But yestermorn, how bright her smile:
How soft the blush that rose,
Mantling the white of neck and brow,
As sunset tints the snows.

With tender light her dark eyes shone;
Sweet was the roseate glow;
Alas! how little thought we then,
Her sun had dipped so low.

Through all the hours one mourner sits,
Watching her pulseless rest,
With dumb, white lips and hopeless look,
And head bowed on his breast.

Ah, death! thy ways are dark and strange—
Passing age and sorrow by;
While youth and joy along thy track
All scathed and blasted lie.