From book 7 of the Anthology: brief lives

Three young lives cut short, for these uncertain times. The first was a famous author; the others, nobody in particular, except that each of them meant everything to someone.

AP 7.7 (Asclepiades)

This sweet work is ERINNA’s — it is small,

For she was but a girl of nineteen years,

And yet it is more powerful than most.

If Hades had not come for me so soon,

What other might now own so great a name?

AP 7.170 (Posidippus, or Callimachus)

He played beside the well, Archianax,

A boy of three. His mute reflection called.

The mother pulled him soaking out, her son,

To see if any trace of life remained. 

The child did not pollute the spring with death;

He slept upon her knee, and here sleeps sound.

7.185 (Antipater of Thessalonica)

Italian earth holds me, a Libyan girl:

Beneath these sands near Rome I lie unwed.

Pompeia raised me like I was her own,

And set me free, and wept to lay me here.

She hoped to see my marriage-torch ablaze;

But she was thwarted, and my brand was lit

Not as we’d prayed, but by Persephone.

I'm getting the urge to translate more Gregory (AP 8), the Anthology's most concentrated poet of loss.