The hours of the passion and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

My little Star, my bright and beaming one!
Not yet—it is too soon to speak of thee;—
Yet, since already thy swift race is run,
One word, in time, withholden may not be.

For all thy days were flowers, and each had fruit
Of joyous service, and of sacred mirth;
Thy sweet face, thy sweet voice for ever mute
Have left too many desolate on earth.

Thou, dying in the most heroic act
Of life, life-giving, hast not left on earth
A barren record, but the future tract
Of time is blossomed with thy buds of birth.

Thank God for thee, then! for thy lovely span
Of springtime here, whose gladness made us glad;
And that thy higher, heavenly life began,
Ere from thy bloom one rose-leaf faded had.

But oh! my bride, my bride, my bride of June!
Thou who didst wear the roses in thy face,
Thou who didst dream white nights beneath the moon,
Thou who didst grow so lovely in this place. . . .