Song I Poem by Grace Greenwood

No passionless creature of duty,
No child of capricious delay,
Our love, like the goddess of beauty,
Sprang into warm life in a day!
Around us her magic spells flinging,
She smiled as she saw we adored,
And then, in a burst of wild singing,
Her soul's morning raptures outpoured.

Ah, soon changed that song, born in heaven,
To farewells and passionate sighs!
For a mist, like the shadow of even,
Came over her violet eyes:
With Hope's golden sunshine around her,
On Joy's couch of roses half-blown,
Pale, cold as a snow-wreath, we found her; —
Her glowing young spirit had flown!