To the Memory of Florence M. Seidle
A youthful bloom just raised to morning light,
Droops to repose, and fades from mortal sight;
The drossy part resolves again to earth,
The soul receives a fair celestial birth.
Could we but view the pleasures that await,
In Heaven above, in that immortal state,
Content no more with life's inglorious way,
To dust would haste this ever-drooping clay.
No more her hand awakes the tuneful key,
Her voice no more is heard in melody,
For pleasant sleep, with ever-during rest,
Hath stilled her voice, and laid that hand abreast.
The form so pleasing and with graceful move,
Whose throbbing breast its music told of love,
Though never shall again our home adorn,
We love forever, and forever mourn.