 | Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne |  |
NOT DEAD.
TO J. A. D.
Here, at the sweetest hour of this sweet day,
Here in the calmest woodland haunt I know,
Benignant thoughts around my memory play,
And in my heart do pleasant fancies blow,
Like flowers turned to thee, radiant and aglow,
Flushed by the light of times forever fled,
Whose tender glory pales, but is not dead.
Here in the calmest woodland haunt I know,
Benignant thoughts around my memory play,
And in my heart do pleasant fancies blow,
Like flowers turned to thee, radiant and aglow,
Flushed by the light of times forever fled,
Whose tender glory pales, but is not dead.
The warm south wind is like thy generous breath,
Laden with kindly words of gentle cheer,
And every whispering leaf above me saith,
She whom thou dream'st so distant hovers near;
Her love it is that thrills the sunset air
With mystic motions from a time that's fled,
Long past and gone, in sooth,—but, oh! not dead!
Laden with kindly words of gentle cheer,
And every whispering leaf above me saith,
She whom thou dream'st so distant hovers near;
Her love it is that thrills the sunset air
With mystic motions from a time that's fled,
Long past and gone, in sooth,—but, oh! not dead!
143
The drowsy murmur of cool brooks below;
The soft, slow clouds that seem to muse on high;
Love-notes of hidden birds, that come and go,
Making a sentient rapture of the sky;
All the rare season's peaceful sorcery,
These hints of cordial joys forever fled,
Joys past, indeed, and yet they are not dead:
The soft, slow clouds that seem to muse on high;
Love-notes of hidden birds, that come and go,
Making a sentient rapture of the sky;
All the rare season's peaceful sorcery,
These hints of cordial joys forever fled,
Joys past, indeed, and yet they are not dead:
Far from the motley throng of sordid men,
From fashion far, mean strife and frenzied gain,
In those dear days through many a mountain glen,
By mountain streams, and fields of rippling grain,
We roamed untouched by Passion's feverish pain,
But quaffing Friendship's tranquil draughts instead,
Its waters clear whose sweetness is not dead!
From fashion far, mean strife and frenzied gain,
In those dear days through many a mountain glen,
By mountain streams, and fields of rippling grain,
We roamed untouched by Passion's feverish pain,
But quaffing Friendship's tranquil draughts instead,
Its waters clear whose sweetness is not dead!
Above that nook of fair remembrance stands
A dove-eyed Faith, that falters not, nor sleeps;
No flowers of Lethe droop in her white hands,
And if the watch that steadfast angel keeps
Be pensive and some transient tears she weeps,
They are but tears a fond regret may shed
O'er twilight joys which fade, but are not dead!
A dove-eyed Faith, that falters not, nor sleeps;
No flowers of Lethe droop in her white hands,
And if the watch that steadfast angel keeps
Be pensive and some transient tears she weeps,
They are but tears a fond regret may shed
O'er twilight joys which fade, but are not dead!
Not dead! not dead! but glorified and fair,
Like yonder marvellous cloudland floating far
Between the mellowing sunset's amber air
And the mild lustre of eve's earliest star,
Oh, such, so pure, so bright, these memories are!
Earth's warmth and Heaven's serene around them spread,
They pass, they wane, but, sweet! they are not dead!
Like yonder marvellous cloudland floating far
Between the mellowing sunset's amber air
And the mild lustre of eve's earliest star,
Oh, such, so pure, so bright, these memories are!
Earth's warmth and Heaven's serene around them spread,
They pass, they wane, but, sweet! they are not dead!
| Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne | |