Praise

What praise can I render
Unto flesh so warm
And hair soft as velvet,
That now lays still'd
In the first winter snow.

What praise can I render
Unto lips flame-trodden 
And eyes of em'rald shine,
That now dullily gaze
T'wards Heaven's court.

What praise can I render
Unto soul such as thine;
'Twas a rose most splendid
Sealing the scent o' spring,
'Till the cruel hands of winter
Plucked its petals crimson,
And strown them 'cross the alter
Of snow-devoured world.