The bells :: :: University of Virginia Library

It happened on a summer day that Hall
And Walter Everland, a young poet,
And Arthur Thornburn and my humble self,
Were in a church-yard near th' Academy,
Reading odd epitaphs. And tired out,
We stretched ourselves beneath the wedded boughs,
Of some tall lindens by the river side,
Cheating the laggard moments of their prey
Of weariness in drawing similes
From clouds, and trees, and rocks. Each one in turn,
Putting some question to the other three.
Thus when to me the lot of querist fell:

“What is this grave-yard like?” Then Hall replied,
“'Tis like a bee-hive with the bees
Dead in their cells!” And we grew solemn as
The shadows of the linden trees.

“What is this grave-yard like?” And Arthur said,
Resting his eyes upon the tombs,
“These bodies, lacking souls and tenantless,
Are like so many empty rooms!”

“What is this grave-yard like?” And Walter said,
“A flower garden where are sown
By Christ the seeds of many flowerets,
To blossom Resurrection Morn!”

And then we smiled, and placed upon his head
With loving hands a daisy wreath.
Who looks in the mild eyes of Faith, can draw
Sweet fancies from the realm of Death.

The twilight coming on us, we arose;
They to their studies went, I to my room

To think of those three quaint conceits, but most
Of Walter's; and I dropt asleep with his
Sweet fancy folded in my heart, and have
Felt nearer God and Heaven ever since.