EDITH.
BY L. E. L.
Weep not, weep not, that in the spring
We have to make a grave;
The flowers will grow, the birds will sing,
The early roses wave:
And make the sod we 're spreading fair,
For her who sleeps below;
We might not bear to lay her there,
In winter frost and snow.
We never hoped to keep her long,
When but a fairy child,
With dancing step, and birdlike song,
And eyes that only smiled;
A something shadowy and frail
Was even in her mirth;
She look'd a flower that one rough gale
Would bear away from earth.
There was too clear and blue a light
Within her radiant eyes,
They were too beautiful, too bright,
Too like their native skies:
Too changeable the rose which shed
Its colour on her face,
Now burning with a passionate red,
Now with just one faint trace.
