“WHOM THE GODS LOVE DIE YOUNG”

Her voice is hushed, her hands are still, I, from the summit of the hill, Look down, and marvel at God’s will. Her foot was planted at the base All eager for the upward race, Her genius shining in her face. She felt the soul within her leap, She yearned to scale the steepest steep, And now—she’s fallen upon sleep! God knoweth best!—I must descend The downward slope. Good-bye, sweet friend, Life’s myriad ways meet in the end.