Thou beautiful misfortune! image fair
Of flowers all ravished, yet their sweetness giving
To the rude hand that crushed them! thou dost wear
Thy loveliness so meekly—thy love hiving
Within thy deepest heart-cells—that the air
Pauses enamored, from thy breath contriving
To steal the perfume of the incensed fire
Which brightly burns within, yet burns without desire.
Thy life should be among the roses, where
Beauty without its passion paints each leaf,
And gently-falling dews upon the air
The light of loveliness exhale, and brief
And glorious, without toil, or pain, or care,
They prideless bloom and wither without grief.
Thou shouldst not feel the slow and sure decay
Which frees ignoble spirits from their clay.
Farewell, thou bright embodiment of truth—
Too warm to worship, yet too pure to love!
Thou shalt survive in thy immortal youth
Thy brief existence—while thy soul above
Rests in the bosom of its God. No ruth,
Or anguish, or despair, or hopeless love,
Again shall rend thy gentle breast—but bliss
Embalm in that bright world the heart that broke in this.
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