  She was not fair, nor full of grace, Nor crowned with thought or aught beside; Nor wealth had she, of mind or face, To win our love or raise our pride; No lover's thought her cheek did touch; No poet's dream was round her thrown; And yet we miss her,—ah, too much, Now—she hath flown! We miss her when the morning calls, As one that mingled in our mirth; We miss her when the evening falls,— A trifle wanted on the earth! Some fancy small, or subtile thought, Is checked ere to its blossom grown; Some chain is broken that we wrought, Now—she hath flown! No solid good, nor hope defined, Is marred now she has sunk in night; And yet the strong immortal Mind Is stopped in its triumphant flight! Perhaps some grain lost to its sphere Might cast the great Sun from his throne; For all we know is—"She was here," And—"She hath flown!" Bryan Waller Procter. |
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