Sonnets :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Tis not for thee, my Sister, that I grieve,
Whose little life scarce two moons measur'd round;
Thou had'st not time to smile on me, ere bound
Unto that land where hope can ne'er deceive.
I saw thee, but it was in that repose
Unequall'd for its quiet; 'twas in death:
A cherub beautiful, but wanting breath,
And wings such as young seraphim disclose.
Thou happy art; I only mourn for them
Who weep for thee, and will for many a day,
Till time shall wipe affection's tears away.
Methinks I hear a voice their grief condemn:
“Weep not for me,” the lost one's spirit cries;
“In Abraham's bosom blest your infant lies.”