On The Death Of Miss Fanny V. Apthorp.

'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead.     Her presence, like the shadow of a wing     That is just given to the upward sky,     Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice,     And for her step we listen, and the eye     Looks for her wonted coming with a strange,     Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feel     That she will no more come - that from her cheek     The delicate flush has faded, and the light     Dead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip,     That was so exquisitely pure, the dew     Of the damp grave has fallen! Who, so lov'd,     Is left among the living? Who hath walk'd     The world with such a winning loveliness,     And on its bright, brief journey, gather'd up     Such treasures of affection? She was lov'd     Only as idols are. She was the pride     Of her familiar sphere - the daily joy     Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze,     And, in the light and music of her way,     Have a companion's portion. Who could feel,     While looking upon beauty such as hers,     That it would ever perish! It is like     The melting of a star into the sky     While you are gazing on it, or a dream     In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken.