On The Death Of A Young Girl Poem by Annie Adams Fields

SHE leaped out of infancy's arm
Running over with innocent charm,
And wearing the features of love.
Spared days or but hours from her doom,
This heart, pure as blue skies above,
Had ripened to fragrance and bloom;
But Heaven had destined for death
The allurements of this gentle breath,
And Heaven her life doth now keep
Who sweetly hath fallen on sleep,
Nor murmured against the All-Good.
Even so a smile is effaced;
So dies, nor can ever be traced,
The song of a bird in the wood.