 | Denzil place |  |
And so they buried Constance out of sight,
And Geoffrey Denzil never saw again
His darling's face; but he remembers her
As last he saw her; scatter'd all around
Her sleeping form, the scented southern flow'rs,
The single rose, and double violet,
And mignionette, and bright anemone,
And in her hand she held a faded wreath
Of English evergreens—box, laurel, fir,
And one dark spray of sad funereal yew
To which a single shrivell'd berry clung,—
These were the leaves that Constance gather'd once
Before she quitted silent Denzil Place,
Whereon her husband read her written words—
“This wreath of leaves was gather'd in the garden
“Of Eden; to be kept for evermore.”
And so he laid them there, that, if indeed
That sleeping form should ever rise from death
(As she believ'd,) and soar triumphantly
To other brighter realms, she then should find
On waking into glorious second life,
This little faded memory of earth
Still clinging to her pale unfolding hand,
And like her, maybe, re-awakening
To life and freshness; so that, 'midst the flow'rs
Of Heaven's garden, some soft falling seed,
(Perchance the little shrivell'd yew-berry,)
From these sad sprays of Earth, translated thus,
Might, taking root, uprise and bloom again,
Reminding one amongst the seraph-band
Of those faint, fleeting moments pass'd and gone,
When she had lov'd, and wander'd 'neath the shade
Amongst the haunted groves of Denzil Place.
And Geoffrey Denzil never saw again
His darling's face; but he remembers her
As last he saw her; scatter'd all around
Her sleeping form, the scented southern flow'rs,
The single rose, and double violet,
And mignionette, and bright anemone,
And in her hand she held a faded wreath
Of English evergreens—box, laurel, fir,
And one dark spray of sad funereal yew
To which a single shrivell'd berry clung,—
These were the leaves that Constance gather'd once
237
Whereon her husband read her written words—
“This wreath of leaves was gather'd in the garden
“Of Eden; to be kept for evermore.”
And so he laid them there, that, if indeed
That sleeping form should ever rise from death
(As she believ'd,) and soar triumphantly
To other brighter realms, she then should find
On waking into glorious second life,
This little faded memory of earth
Still clinging to her pale unfolding hand,
And like her, maybe, re-awakening
To life and freshness; so that, 'midst the flow'rs
Of Heaven's garden, some soft falling seed,
(Perchance the little shrivell'd yew-berry,)
From these sad sprays of Earth, translated thus,
Might, taking root, uprise and bloom again,
Reminding one amongst the seraph-band
Of those faint, fleeting moments pass'd and gone,
When she had lov'd, and wander'd 'neath the shade
Amongst the haunted groves of Denzil Place.
| Denzil place | |