 | Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne |  |
TWO GRAVES.
I.
It glooms forlornly 'mid wan ocean dunes,
A desolate grave-mound on a dreary lea,
Touched by sad splendors of gray-misted moons,
Or veiled by shivering spray-drifts from the sea.
A desolate grave-mound on a dreary lea,
Touched by sad splendors of gray-misted moons,
Or veiled by shivering spray-drifts from the sea.
There, all unmarked, the dim days come and go;
No tender hand renews its crumbling turf,
On which the o'erwearied sea-winds faintly blow,
Blent with far murmurings of the mournful surf.
No tender hand renews its crumbling turf,
On which the o'erwearied sea-winds faintly blow,
Blent with far murmurings of the mournful surf.
Vaguely the uncompanioned hours flit by,
Wrapped in pale clouds that sometimes mutely weep
Some ghost of Lethe haunts that hollow sky,
Where even the doubtful noontides seem asleep,
Wrapped in pale clouds that sometimes mutely weep
Some ghost of Lethe haunts that hollow sky,
Where even the doubtful noontides seem asleep,
Save when autumnal tempests fiercely rise,
Baring the harbor-mouth's black teeth of rocks,
And like a Maenad, with wild hair and eyes,
Raves from the North the infuriate Equinox.
Baring the harbor-mouth's black teeth of rocks,
And like a Maenad, with wild hair and eyes,
Raves from the North the infuriate Equinox.
II.
Here, peace divine, o'er glimmering grove and grass,
Hallows the sunshine in the noon's warm lull;
Ethereal shadows gently pause, or pass,
Flecking with gold the hill-slope beautiful.
Hallows the sunshine in the noon's warm lull;
Ethereal shadows gently pause, or pass,
Flecking with gold the hill-slope beautiful.
This grave, all wreathed with flowers and glad with spring
Looks skyward like a half-veiled, museful eye,
Which answers subtly while the wood-birds sing
Heaven's smile of forecast immortality.
Looks skyward like a half-veiled, museful eye,
Which answers subtly while the wood-birds sing
Heaven's smile of forecast immortality.
Can deathly dust pervade a spot so sweet?
Or hath the form it guarded stolen away,
And ere its hour of ransom, gone to meet
The unborn soul of Resurrection Day?
Or hath the form it guarded stolen away,
And ere its hour of ransom, gone to meet
The unborn soul of Resurrection Day?
| Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne | |