 | Poems |  |
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CXXII.WHERE THE PINEWOODS WAVE.
I
Where the pinewoods wave,And the white streams rave,
I came in deepest gloom:
I hated my youth
For its sweet untruth,
And laid it in a tomb.
I pined for a poet's troubled morrow,
And wept, ay, wept for the want of sorrow.
II
Where the pinewoods wave,And the white streams rave,
I came when I was old:
For the jar of life
Is a gladdening strife
Which makes not a poet cold.
I had buried my youth hasty and erring,—
Oh! have buried days a disinterring?
III
But the pinewoods waved,And the white streams raved,—
They told me in my need,
That softness and feeling
Were not soul-healing,
And so it was decreed,—
That the marvellous flowers of Christian duty
Should grow on the grave of buried beauty.
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