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She died at play,
Gambolled away
Her lease of spotted hours,
Then sank as gaily as a Turn
Upon a Couch of flowers.
Her ghost strolled softly o'er the hill
Yesterday, and Today,
Her vestments as the silver fleece—
Her countenance as spray.
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Comments1Wow, this poem really hit me hard. That bit about sinking gaily as a turn upon a couch of flowers got me. So beautiful but also real sad. You can actualy feel the spirit wandering. Speachless.