Bright crisped threads of pure translucent gold!
Ye who were wont with zephyr's breath to play,
Over the warm cheek and ivory forehead stray,
Or clasp her neck in many an amorous fold,
Now, motionless, in this little shrine must hold:
No more to wanton in the eye of day;
Or to the breeze your changeful hues display:
For ever still inanimate, and cold.
Poor, poor last relic of an angel's face!
Sad setting ray;--no more thy orb is seen!
O beauty's pattern, miracle of grace;
Must this be all that tells what thou hast been!--
Come then, cold crystal, on this bosom lie
Till love and grief and fond remembrance die!
Brooke Boothby (1743-1824)
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