  [From the French of Chateaubriand.] Along her coffin-lid the spotless roses rest A father’s sad, sad hand culled from a happy bower; Earth, they were born of thee: take back upon thy breast Young child and tender flower. To this unhallowed world, ah! let them not return, To this dark world where grief and sin and anguish lower; The winds might wound and break, the sun might parch and burn Thou sleepest, O Elise! thy years were brief and bright; The burden and the heat are spared thy noonday hour; For dewy morn has flown, and on its pinions light, Young child and tender flower. FOOTNOTE: |
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