Classic Poem

Ah —well it is—since she is gone,
She can return no more,
To see the face so dim and wan,
That was so warm before.

Familiar things would all seem strange,
And pleasure past be woe;
A record sad of ceaseless change,
Is all the world below.

The very hills, they are not now,
The hills which once they were,
They change as we are changed, or how
Could we the burden bear?

Ye deem the dead are ashy pale,
Cold denizens of gloom—
But what are ye, who live to wail,
And weep upon their tomb?

She passed away, like morning dew,
Before the sun was high,
So brief her time, she scarcely knew,
The meaning of a sigh.

As round the rose its soft perfume,
Sweet love around her floated;
Admired she grew—while mortal doom
Crept on, unfear'd, unnoted.

Love was her guardian Angel here,
But love to death resign'd her,
Tho' love was kind, why should we fear,
But holy death is kinder?