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Down the dark valley, alone, alone,
Has our white-winged dove in her beauty flown;
Her tender eyes that shone so bright
Have closed forever to earthly light;
She has left the love that was round her thrown,
And down the valley has fled, alone.
There were bitter tears when she passed away —
A sad, sad cloud obscured our day!


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She had twined herself round each loving heart,
Till she seemed of its very self a part;
O, how we loved her! — but she has flown
Down the dark valley — alone, alone.
She was but a fragile and beautiful thing,
A blossom to bloom in the lap of Spring;
The noonday heat with its feverish glow,
And the chilly breath of the wintry snow,
She could not abide, and thus has flown
Down the dark valley — alone, alone.
O, dark to us doth the valley appear,
And we shrink aghast from its shadows drear;
The earthly sense is chilled by the gloom
Of the sombre midnight of the tomb; —
Thus we gave her up, while our hearts made moan,
As she went down the valley — alone, alone.
Alone, all alone! but beyond the night
Of the darkened vale is a radiant light,
That breaks from above with diviner ray
Than shines the glory of solar day,
Which springs from God's eternal throne,
And lights the valley she trod alone!
And seraph hands in joyfulness hold
The little wanderer from our fold;
Her gentle feet shall feel no harm,
Sustained by the angelic arm,
And brighter than the sun e'er shone
Is she who passed down the valley alone.