AND oh, to think the sun can shine,
The birds can sing, the flowers can bloom,
And she, whose soul was all divine,
Be darkly mouldering in the tomb:

That o’er her head the night-wind sighs,
And the sad cypress droops and moans;
That night has veiled her glorious eyes,
And silence hushed her heavenly tones:

That those sweet lips no more can smile,
Nor pity’s tender shadows chase,
With many a gentle, child-like wile,
The rippling laughter o’er her face:

That dust is on the burnished gold
That floated round her royal head;
That her great heart is dead and cold—
Her form of fire and beauty dead!

Roll on, gray earth and shining star,
And coldly mock our dreams of bliss;
There is no glory left to mar,
Nor any grief so black as this!