ON THE DEATH OF A LADY,
Reading edition
Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs, Then will I weep, in anguish weep, Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.
But if thy sainted soul can feel, And mingles in our misery; Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal— Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.
The beam of morn was on the stream, But sullen clouds the day deform; Like thee was that young, orient beam, Like death, alas, that sullen storm!
Thou wert not formed for living here, So linked thy soul was with the sky; Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear, We thought thou wert not formed to die.