Classic Poem

1.

God, release our dying sister!
Beauteous blight hath sadly kiss'd her:
Whiter than the wild, white roses,
Famine in her face discloses
Mute submission, patience holy,
Passing fair! but passing slowly.

2.

Though she said, " You know I'm dying, "
In her heart green trees are sighing;
Not of them hath pain bereft her,
In the city, where we left her:
" Bring, " she said, " a hedgeside blossom! "
Love shall lay it on her bosom.