She Was Not Fair nor Full of Grace

She was not fair, nor full of grace,
Nor crowned with thought or aught beside;
No wealth had she, of mind or face,
To win our love, or raise our pride:
No lover's thought her cheek did touch;
No poet's dream was 'round her thrown;
And yet we miss her--ah, too much,
Now--she hath flown!

We miss her when the morning calls,
As one that mingled in our mirth;
We miss her when the evening falls,--
A trifle wanted on the earth!
Some fancy small or subtle thought
Is checked ere to its blossom grown;
Some chain is broken that we wrought,
Now--she hath flown!

No solid good, nor hope defined,
Is marred now she hath sunk in night;
And yet the strong immortal Mind
Is stopped in its triumphant flight!
Stern friend, what power is in a tear,
What strength in one poor thought alone,
When all we know is--"She was here,"
And--"She hath flown!"