She was not fair, nor full of grace,
Nor crowned with thought or aught beside;
Nor 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 subtile 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 has sunk in night;
And yet the strong immortal Mind
Is stopped in its triumphant flight!
Perhaps some grain lost to its sphere
Might cast the great Sun from his throne;
For all we know is--"She was here,"
And--"She hath flown!"
_Bryan Waller Procter._
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