 | The high-top sweeting And Other Poems |  |
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A WINTER GRAVE.
When in the soft and gracious summer weather,
Some tired soul passes, and a grave is made,
How soon, by growing grass-roots laced together,
The sods forget the wounding of the spade!
Some tired soul passes, and a grave is made,
How soon, by growing grass-roots laced together,
The sods forget the wounding of the spade!
For Nature rallies all her subtile forces,
Wind, sunshine, and the growth-compelling rain;
And ere a score of days have run their courses,
The scars are healed, the turf is green again.
Wind, sunshine, and the growth-compelling rain;
And ere a score of days have run their courses,
The scars are healed, the turf is green again.
And though our sorrow fills the utmost measure,
Some sweetness mingles with its bitterest part;
We know how tenderly our buried treasure
Is folded close in Nature's mother-heart.
Some sweetness mingles with its bitterest part;
We know how tenderly our buried treasure
Is folded close in Nature's mother-heart.
The soft brown mould is neither cold nor cruel;
Among its grass what loving fancies grow!
The common flower that holds its dewdrop jewel
Seems conscious of the gentle heart below.
Among its grass what loving fancies grow!
The common flower that holds its dewdrop jewel
Seems conscious of the gentle heart below.
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But when the frozen ground is forced asunder
In winter-time, by long and patient toil,
That some dear head may find its resting under
The heavy silence of the unwilling soil,
In winter-time, by long and patient toil,
That some dear head may find its resting under
The heavy silence of the unwilling soil,
How cruel seems the earth, which will not render
One summer scent, one blade of grass, or leaf!
Even Nature's self seems careless and untender,
And adds another pang to aching grief.
One summer scent, one blade of grass, or leaf!
Even Nature's self seems careless and untender,
And adds another pang to aching grief.
Weary indeed must be the heart to covet
The chilly rest beneath the frozen ground;
No humblest weed or bramble bends above it,
No songster warbles near the lonesome mound.
The chilly rest beneath the frozen ground;
No humblest weed or bramble bends above it,
No songster warbles near the lonesome mound.
Yet though to-day no loving blossom raises
Its hopeful face above the wintry tomb,
The icy sods are full of sleeping daisies,
Which wait but spring, to wake to life and bloom.
Its hopeful face above the wintry tomb,
The icy sods are full of sleeping daisies,
Which wait but spring, to wake to life and bloom.
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