On the Death of an Unfortunate Lady

Ah! have you seen a bird of sweetest tone
Freed by some infant from its prison gloom?
Quick to the treacherous glass the mourner flies--
Go make its little grave--it falls--it dies
And see him plant it round with flowers, and pour
An infant's angel tear, an infant's sighs,
But ah! poor maid no penitential shower
Yet o'er thy grave shall bend the pensive flower
And Pity long shall weep at Eve's funereal hour.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.