 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
85
TWENTY-TWO.
Smilingly day's wearied monarch
Lays aside her golden crown,
And o'er earth's calm breast, the twilight
Shakes her shadowy tresses down.
With white forehead pure and saintly
Comes the moon of memories,
And upon the dim earth faintly
Look the loving Pleiades.
Lays aside her golden crown,
And o'er earth's calm breast, the twilight
Shakes her shadowy tresses down.
With white forehead pure and saintly
Comes the moon of memories,
And upon the dim earth faintly
Look the loving Pleiades.
Little one, with face uplifted
Softly to the failing light,
And thy soft hair brightly drifted
Backward from thy forehead white,—
Come, while yet yon lonely wild-bird
Warbles forth his farewell trills,
And the hem of day's bright garment
Lies along the western hills,—
Softly to the failing light,
And thy soft hair brightly drifted
Backward from thy forehead white,—
Come, while yet yon lonely wild-bird
Warbles forth his farewell trills,
And the hem of day's bright garment
Lies along the western hills,—
86
Come and see how fast the summer
Flees before October's tread,
With her garments rent and faded,
And her garlands sere and dead.
Bright the frozen dew-drops glitter
Lying on her soft brown hair,
And her sighing, sad and bitter,
Burdens all the golden air.
Flees before October's tread,
With her garments rent and faded,
And her garlands sere and dead.
Bright the frozen dew-drops glitter
Lying on her soft brown hair,
And her sighing, sad and bitter,
Burdens all the golden air.
Two-and-twenty years this even
Since a mother's yearning prayer
Blest a young child, newly given
To the world's unloving care;
Two-and-twenty years this even!
Just as now the stars looked down,—
Just as now, night's calm-browed empress
Wore her pearl and silver crown;—
Since a mother's yearning prayer
Blest a young child, newly given
To the world's unloving care;
Two-and-twenty years this even!
Just as now the stars looked down,—
Just as now, night's calm-browed empress
Wore her pearl and silver crown;—
Yet all else is strangely altered;
Ah, for many lonesome years,
O'er that mother's lowly grave-mound
Have the violets dropped their tears;
Weeping not that she so early
In life's battle sunk and died,
But that one she blessed in dying,
Is not sleeping by her side!
Ah, for many lonesome years,
O'er that mother's lowly grave-mound
Have the violets dropped their tears;
Weeping not that she so early
In life's battle sunk and died,
But that one she blessed in dying,
Is not sleeping by her side!
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Little one, with face uplifted
Softly in the silver light,
And thy bright hair backward drifted—
Know'st thou 't is my birth-day night?
Know'st thou, as we kneel together
Where the moonlight floods the floor,
On my conscious head in blessing.
Rests that mother's hand once more?
Softly in the silver light,
And thy bright hair backward drifted—
Know'st thou 't is my birth-day night?
Know'st thou, as we kneel together
Where the moonlight floods the floor,
On my conscious head in blessing.
Rests that mother's hand once more?
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |