When I look over the shoulder of crimson color clouds,
I see nothing but Fanny as if she is wearing a white scarf of waxes. Phosphorus, from the mountain of fire, drops on her shoulder.
Who knows how this happens, maybe a burning candle fell, flashing eyes of nature.
or a self-lighting match lighted up by itself, What she requested was a cup of coffee, a cascading fountain and then she died and rolled down in the past. Then her soul flew so high that she turns into white snowflakes hovering lightning, that’s it I look over, over the Longfellow bridge. And the river gives water while around her hair into droplets of ice. The sun lends her crimson color skart to her. She is now red clouds seen accompanied by the setting sun.
(In remembrance of Frances Appleton in 1861)