Passing of La Belle

By Salliewalker



There was once a young lady of this small rural town,

With light rosy skin, deep gold hair, and eyes rich brown.

Her smile was of pearl setting amid ruby red lips.

Her laughter the clear sound of tinkling glass.

Her green dress once swished over the green grass

As she danced under the stars at night.



Her song once rang clearly in the stillest of nights.

Her long gold hair once shone as she ran in the wind.

Her laugh was once heard echoing through the woods.

All of the town had loved their beautiful belle,

Their most beautiful of pearls, and loveliest of flowers.



She had a beau, a fine strong lad.

You’d see them laugh, dance over the soft grass.

On nights you’ll see them walking under shade of tree.

And by day you’d look, but no sign of them you shall find.



Then one day came the war.

Shovels are put up, and guns taken out.

As the young lad marches with the others out of town,

His lovely belle watches, with eyes large and brown.



Spring turns to summer, summer to fall.

Those that have left have come back not at all.

Then one day comes back a long wooden box.

Made of pine, and painted a lovely dark brown.

They bring it to the belle’s house, and carry it inside.

The belle lifts the lid with trembling fingers

Then in her hands her face hides.



Guns are gone, and shovels back out.

She watches as the men dig his grave,

And wonders if there is a chance at all—

Of soft green grass being where he is today.



Slowly the shiny gold locks lose their luster.

Song has ceased, laughter stopped, smiles have faded.

Skin now paled, and eyes now dimmed.

The green dress turns to dust in the corner.



Another box is carried from the house.

It is placed alongside the soldier’s grave.

Prayers are said, amid drizzling rain.

As the church bell rings its dreadful death knell,

The village mourns for their once lovely belle.



The grave is now silent, and the sun shows its face.

The front of the tombstone reads in bold letters:



“Here lies the loveliest of all flowers.

Whose smile was golden, and laughter cherished.

Whose life was as spring, and death as winter.

From 1772 to 1797, so was the life and passing of la belle.”







A/N: Don't know if they allow author's note here, but I'm putting it unless stated otherwise. 

I made up the date, as well as the story. 

I was not strongly inspired for this one, though I do admit I enjoyed writing it. 

Please read and respond. 

Don't know if they allow flames here, but please don't anyway. Thanks.