There she is, so tender and meek,
An ashen blush upon her cheek.
Clutched in her fist so tight,
A fragile rose of creamy white.
With a deep red satin upon her brest,
She is chilled, though dressed in her best.
Her hair cascades in an elegant fall;
Such demureness captivates us all.
We marvel her beauty, then without a sound,
They lower her coffin into the ground.
