 | Flower o' the thorn |  |
CORPOSANTS.
O WHAT are these that beckon from the blackness all around me,
From the harbours of the setting and the hollows of the sea?
O what are these that me so long have lost and now have found me,
When the Past and Present mingle and are merged in the To-Be?
From the harbours of the setting and the hollows of the sea?
O what are these that me so long have lost and now have found me,
When the Past and Present mingle and are merged in the To-Be?
There stand they, pale and laying on pale lips yet paler fingers,
The loves of youth, that dead to me are now or worse than dead.
The light within their looks is quenched for ever; yet there lingers
A sad sepulchral halo for remembrance round each head.
The loves of youth, that dead to me are now or worse than dead.
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A sad sepulchral halo for remembrance round each head.
And yonder, resolution, thought, desire, caprice, endeavour,
The ghosts of my dead hopes and dreams are marshalled on the plain:
Dead, drowned and dead in seas of blood and tears they are, nor ever,
Whilst Time his tale is telling, will they walk the world again.
The ghosts of my dead hopes and dreams are marshalled on the plain:
Dead, drowned and dead in seas of blood and tears they are, nor ever,
Whilst Time his tale is telling, will they walk the world again.
You passed me by, procession-wise, and vanished, never stopping,
For all that I could plead with you, whilst Life was yet in bloom;
And now you throng about me, when, in darkness round me dropping,
Time's troubled torrent smoothens for the plunge into the gloom.
For all that I could plead with you, whilst Life was yet in bloom;
And now you throng about me, when, in darkness round me dropping,
Time's troubled torrent smoothens for the plunge into the gloom.
Nay, get you gone! Betake you to your limboes back! I need not
Your corposants to guide me to the goal of all below:
I'm none of those, you wot it, who will linger, if you lead not:
The path which you would point me is the way which I would go.
Your corposants to guide me to the goal of all below:
I'm none of those, you wot it, who will linger, if you lead not:
The path which you would point me is the way which I would go.
Come back, when all is over, to the place where my repose is,
And if you will it, follow with your faint funereal tread:
There on my stony pillow strew your pale sepulchral roses
And wave your ghostly standards o'er my stark and heedless head.
And if you will it, follow with your faint funereal tread:
There on my stony pillow strew your pale sepulchral roses
And wave your ghostly standards o'er my stark and heedless head.
| Flower o' the thorn | |