 | Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne |  |
UNDERGROUND—A FANTASY.
Majestic dreams of heavenly calms,
Bright visions of unfading palms,
Wherewith the brows of saints are crowned,—
A while my soul resigns them all,
Content to rest death's dreamless thrall,
Safe underground!
Bright visions of unfading palms,
Wherewith the brows of saints are crowned,—
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Content to rest death's dreamless thrall,
Safe underground!
Rest! rest! oblivious rest I crave,
Though narrowed to a pine-clad grave,
With sylvan shadows shimmering round;
The peace of Heaven, if fair and deep,
Scarce wooes me like Earth's ebon sleep,
Far underground.
Though narrowed to a pine-clad grave,
With sylvan shadows shimmering round;
The peace of Heaven, if fair and deep,
Scarce wooes me like Earth's ebon sleep,
Far underground.
By infinite weariness oppressed
Of soul and senses, blood and breast,
Where can such Gilead balm be found
As that which breathes from out the sod
Baptized by rain and dews of God,
Deep underground?
Of soul and senses, blood and breast,
Where can such Gilead balm be found
As that which breathes from out the sod
Baptized by rain and dews of God,
Deep underground?
A century's space I yearn to be
Untroubled, slumbering tranquilly,
There, by the haunted woodlands bound;
What suns shall set, what planets rise
O'er pulseless brain and curtained eyes,
Dark underground!
Untroubled, slumbering tranquilly,
There, by the haunted woodlands bound;
What suns shall set, what planets rise
O'er pulseless brain and curtained eyes,
Dark underground!
A century's sleep might bring redress
To these dull wounds of weariness,
Till the soothed spirit, hale and sound,
Grow conscious of the sacred trust
Which holds immortal bloom in dust,
Safe underground.
To these dull wounds of weariness,
Till the soothed spirit, hale and sound,
Grow conscious of the sacred trust
Which holds immortal bloom in dust,
Safe underground.
Yea! conscious grow of rustling wings,
And keen, mysterious whisperings,
Blown flame-like o'er the burial-mound:
My soul would feel thy Orient kiss,
Angel of Palingenesis,
Thrilled underground!
And keen, mysterious whisperings,
Blown flame-like o'er the burial-mound:
My soul would feel thy Orient kiss,
Angel of Palingenesis,
Thrilled underground!
| Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne | |