by Phoebe Carey
We tried to win her from her grief,
To soothe her great despair;
We showed her how the starry flowers
Were growing everywhere, --
The starry flowers she used to braid
At evening in her hair.
We told her how our hearts for her,
Beat mournfully and low;
How lines were deepening, day by day,
Across her father's brow;
And how her little brother drooped, --
He had no playmate now.
And then she spoke of weary nights
Of dull and sleepless pain,
And how she grieved that loving friends
Should plead with her in vain;
And hoped that when the summer came
She should be well again.
Still softly singing to herself
Sad words of plaintive rhyme,
She always watched the sun's soft glow
Fade off at eventime,
As one who nursed a pleasant dream
Of some delicious clime.
Thus, sweetly as the flowers that once
She wore at eventide,
Faded and drooped the gentle girl,
A blossom by our side,
And her young light of life went out
With sunset, when she died!
Source:The Poems Of Phoebe Carey
New York: Hurst And Company