POEMS OF JAMES RYDER RANDALL
THE DYING GIRL
Written at the Age of Sixteen
Earth is fading—heaven beaming—
All around grows dark and chill;
White robed phantoms near me streaming—
Streaming, streaming, streaming still.
Clasp me, mother, clasp me lightly,
Lest you press the soul too soon
From the form that once shone brightly—
Quenched its brilliance in its noon.
Kiss me, father, kiss me sweetly;
Smoothe the ringlets from my brow—
Quick—oh quick—for fleetly, fleetly
Speeds life’s current from me now!
Where is Harry, where is Harry?
Far from Stella’s weeping bed;
Who to him my words shall carry—
Who shall tell him I am dead!
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