Of Cora, once so dearly ours, 
 Would mournful memory sing; 
Of how she came when came the flowers, 
 To leave us with the spring. 
That day (returned) which gave her breath 
 Was that whereon she died, 
And o?er the pangs of birth and death 
 Passed blooming as a bride. 

The spring it came, with never a storm, 
 And nine times came and went, 
Till its whole spirit with her form 
 In budding beauty blent. 

Yea, till its sentiment was wreathed 
 About her eye it came, 
And all its foregone influence breathed 
 At mention of her name. 

And aye her soul, her inward worth, 
 Flushed out in subtle glows, 
As from its heart come mantling forth 
 The ardours of a rose. 

It was a glory from within 
 That made her face so fair, 
A radiant spirit void of sin 
 Was working outward there. 

Her locks as they were burnished shone 
 In many a massy fold, 
Or fell in their profusion down 
 Like bursting sheaves of gold. 

Bright garments of a spirit bright, 
 That even in the shroud 
Were like the sunset?s aureate light 
 Within a lifeless cloud. 

When she, our angel of the sun, 
 Had spread her wings in flight, 
Ah, still would mournful memory sing 
 Of her, our lost delight! 

Child with full orbs of heaven-deep blue 
 Illumined violet, 
So richly gentle?touched with dew, 
 Befringed with glossy jet. 

When with the spring we saw depart 
 Those eyes, those tresses curled, 
Then summer dying in love?s heart, 
 To winger left the world. 

Ah, soul that wore the snowy brow, 
 And gentle shining eyes, 
Our song hath aye this burden now 
 Beneath the vernal skies. 

In vain the dews of heaven are shed 
 Where blight hath been before; 
So vainly weep we o?er the dead, 
 But only weep the more. 

Yet from the bright time of her birth 
 And death, does faith construe 
How, like the spring, though not on earth, 
 Our joy shall bloom anew.