 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
OVER THE HILL.
There's a face I must ever remember,
Though I may not behold it again
Through the golden haze of September,
Or the dreary November rain;
A face that was joyous and tender
As the sea in its summer splendor,
And a smile that was clear and still
As the sunrise over the hill.
Though I may not behold it again
Through the golden haze of September,
Or the dreary November rain;
A face that was joyous and tender
As the sea in its summer splendor,
And a smile that was clear and still
As the sunrise over the hill.
There were footsteps that flew to meet me,
Crushing the moss and the fern;
There were eyes that brightened to greet me,
When others were cold and stern.
We crossed, in the sunny weather,
The blossoming fields together,
And rested beside the rill,
Coming over the hill.
Crushing the moss and the fern;
There were eyes that brightened to greet me,
When others were cold and stern.
We crossed, in the sunny weather,
The blossoming fields together,
229
Coming over the hill.
Now the hill is barren and lonely,
And the sea is moaning beyond,
And the bleak, bleak winds answer only
To my heart's cry, wild and fond.
Pale asters, with dewdrops laden,
Do you weep for the blue-eyed maiden
Who sleeps in the graveyard chill—
In the graveyard over the hill?
And the sea is moaning beyond,
And the bleak, bleak winds answer only
To my heart's cry, wild and fond.
Pale asters, with dewdrops laden,
Do you weep for the blue-eyed maiden
Who sleeps in the graveyard chill—
In the graveyard over the hill?
No longer the sea wears the glory
That lighted its billows of old;
The moss and the fern heard a story
That never again can be told.
But I only seem to outlive her:
Green heights lie beyond the dark river;
There my soul to her step will thrill,
Coming over the hill.
That lighted its billows of old;
The moss and the fern heard a story
That never again can be told.
But I only seem to outlive her:
Green heights lie beyond the dark river;
There my soul to her step will thrill,
Coming over the hill.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |