Fragment on his Sister Mary Anne's Death

Sweet bed of death! how oft to thee
In joy and woe my heart shall turn:
How dearer than delight to me
Thy spirit-soothing lore to learn.

In thought to watch that angel-face,
When now the storm had pass'd away,
And all mine anxious eye could trace
Was only sweetness in decay.

O, truest, kindest, gentlest maid!
Earth has no words so soft and pure
That they our dreams of thee should aid,
But Heaven will help them to endure.

There is no cloud that floats on high,
No violet in the dewy vale,
But breathes of thee, and brings thee nigh;
Thy dear memorials cannot fail.
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