When I look over the shoulder of Fanny,
I see nothing but clouds as if she is melting waxes in the illumines clouds. Phosphorus mounds around her hair into droplets of ice. A cascading fountain from mountain of fire lightning water drops on her shoulder. flashing eyes of nature. That it is I look over.
Who knows how this happen, may be a burning wax or a candle fell,
or a self lighting match lighted up by itself,
What she requested was a cup of coffee, and then she died and rolled down in the past. Then her soul flew so high that she turn into white snowflakes hovering
over the Longfellow bridge.
The sun lends her scart to her. She is now red clouds crimson color of a setting sun. That it is I look over.
(In remembrance of Frances Appleton in 1861)