COULDST thou—thou, also, die, whom life so cherished?
Could'st thou go from us, in thy beauteous June,
Leaving a sense of joy untimely perished,
Of music stilled too soon?
We had not dreamed, fair child, that thou before us
Shouldst find the meadows of the asphodel—
Shouldst hear, ere we, "the high imagined chorus,"—
But, ah, for thee, 't is well!
Not thine to creep reluctant to death's portal:
Thy spirit from the mirk of transient things
Rose radiant to the light of the immortal,
With eager, outstretched wings!
For the grave gods, bestowing every blessing
Upon a child of Earth, ere grief should come,
Crowned thee, in youth, with the mild touch caressing
That calls their loved ones home!