 | Poems by a Painter |  |
125
DEAD.
The seasons weave their ancient dance,
The restless ocean ebbs and flows,
The world rolls on through day and dark,
Regardless of our joys or woes!
The restless ocean ebbs and flows,
The world rolls on through day and dark,
Regardless of our joys or woes!
Still up the breezy western slopes
The reaper girls, like apples brown,
Bend singing to their gleeful toil,
And sweep the golden harvest down:
The reaper girls, like apples brown,
Bend singing to their gleeful toil,
And sweep the golden harvest down:
Still, where the slanting sunlight gilds
The boles of cedar and of pine,
Chants the lone blackbird from the brake
With melancholy voice divine:
The boles of cedar and of pine,
Chants the lone blackbird from the brake
With melancholy voice divine:
126
Still all about the mossy tracks
Hums at his darg the wood-ward bee;
Still fitfully the corn-crake's note
Comes to me from the upland lea:
Hums at his darg the wood-ward bee;
Still fitfully the corn-crake's note
Comes to me from the upland lea:
Still round the forest bower she loved,
The woodbine trails its rich festoons;
The slumbrous poppies burst and fall
Beneath the silent autumn moons.
The woodbine trails its rich festoons;
The slumbrous poppies burst and fall
Beneath the silent autumn moons.
Still round her lattice, perched aloof,
In sunny shade of thatchèd eaves,
The jasmine clings, with yearning pale,
And withers in its shroud of leaves:
In sunny shade of thatchèd eaves,
The jasmine clings, with yearning pale,
And withers in its shroud of leaves:
Still round the old familiar porch
Her cherished roses blush and peer,
And fill the sunny air with balm,
And strew their petals year by year.
Her cherished roses blush and peer,
And fill the sunny air with balm,
And strew their petals year by year.
127
Nor here within, one touch of change!
The footstool—the embroidered chair—
The books—the arras on the wall—
The harp—the music—all are there.
The footstool—the embroidered chair—
The books—the arras on the wall—
The harp—the music—all are there.
No touch of change! I close my eyes—
It cannot be she comes no more!
I hear the rustling of her dress;
I hear her footstep on the floor;
It cannot be she comes no more!
I hear the rustling of her dress;
I hear her footstep on the floor;
I feel her breath upon my brow;
I feel her kiss upon my cheek:—
Down, phantoms of the buried past!
Down, or my heavy heart must break.
I feel her kiss upon my cheek:—
Down, phantoms of the buried past!
Down, or my heavy heart must break.
| Poems by a Painter | |