Classic Poem

Mourn not thy daughter fading!
It is the common lot,
That those we love should come and go,
And leave us in this world of woe:
So, murmur not!

Her life was short, but fair,
Unsullied by a blot;
And now she sinks to dreamless rest;
(A dove, who makes the earth her nest;)
So, murmur not!

No pangs, nor passionate grief,
Nor anger raging hot,
No ills shall ever harm her more;
She goes unto the silent shore, —
Where pain is not.

Weep'st thou that none should mourn
For thee, and thy sad lot?
Peace, peace! and know that few e'er grieve.
When Death, the tyrant, doth unweave
Life's little knot.

E'en Thou scarce wept must fade!
It is the common lot,
To link our hearts to things that fly,
To love without return, — and die,
And be — forgot!