The Death-Bed of Beauty

She sleeps in beauty, like the dying rose
By the warm skies and winds of June forsaken;
Or like the sun, when dimm'd with clouds it goes
To its clear ocean-bed, by light winds shaken:
Or like the moon, when through its robes of snow
It smiles with angel meekness — or like sorrow
When it is soothed by resignation's glow,
Or like herself, — she will be dead to-morrow.
How still she sleeps! The young and sinless girl!
And the faint breath upon her red lips trembles!
Waving, almost in death, the raven curl
That floats around her; and she most resembles
The fall of night upon the ocean foam,
Wherefrom the sun-light hath not yet departed;
And where the winds are faint. She stealeth home,
Unsullied girl! an angel broken-hearted!
O, bitter world! that hadst so cold an eye
To look upon so fair a type of heaven;
She could not dwell beneath a winter sky,
And her heart-strings were frozen here and riven,
And now she lies in ruins — look and weep!
How lightly leans her cheek upon the pillow!
And how the bloom of her fair face doth keep
Changed, like a stricken dolphin on the billow.