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Margaret Love Peacock

Long night succeeds thy little day;
Oh blighted blossom! can it be,
That this grey stone, and grassy clay,
Have clos’d our anxious care of thee?
 
The half-form’d speech of artless thought
That spoke a mind beyond thy years;
The song, the dance, by nature taught;
The sunny smiles, the transient tears;
 
The symmetry of face and form,
The eye with light and life replete;
The little heart so fondly warm,
The voice so musically sweet;
 
These, lost to hope, in memory yet
Around the hearts that lov’d thee cling,
Shadowing, with long and vain regret,
The too fair promise of thy spring.
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