LIKE monumental Patience, see Decay
Watching the sand-glass slowly wear away,
While Death at hand, amid her waning powers,
Counts, as a monk his beads, her numbered hours.
Upon her brow, o'er which the tresses wave,
The cold dew gathers, dankly, of the grave,
And in her pale mild eyes a lustre shines,
As if her spirit, as she wastes, refines;
While ever and anon her sunken cheek,
Life's fading beauties delicately streak;
As the departing sun from ocean's brinks
Sheds out its glories brightly ere it sinks!