'THIS is the room where Pinksie died';
So runs the writing there on the wall.
The world outside is a golden tide
Of light, but here the shadows fall.
And who was Pinksie — a babe or wife?
A girl, I think, in her laughing teens,
Who passed away from the feast of life
When boys and girls are kings and queens.
I like to think that she laughed at whiles,
Her eyes alight with the imps of fun,
And knew no sorrow but such as smiles
The moment after the hurt is done.
They named her Pinksie, I have no doubt,
Because of the rich, soft blush she wore;
The roses paled ere they bore her out,
A slim child-figure, through yonder door.
She passed in the joy of her early bloom
To wide, dark realms where no planets roll.
And I write these lines in the empty room
Where Pinksie died. God rest her soul!