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THE ANNIVERSARY.
“Graves are but the footsteps of the angel of eternal life.”—
Jean Paul.
Jean Paul.
I.
May laughs, dropping dew from her tresses,For the reign of the Frost King is o'er;
Blue-eyed, like our lost one, she dresses
The grave where she slumbers once more.
The lark unmolested is building
Amidst hiding grasses her nest,
And bright dandelions are gilding
The green plaid that covers her breast.
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II.
Like flute notes that melt in the distance,Her last song hath died on the ear;
Though ended brief mortal existence,
She dwells in a happier sphere.
Unfit for this valley of sorrow
Are beings so fragile and fair;
Though present to-day, on the morrow
To the Isles of the Blest they repair.
III.
The mirth of the household was endedWhen dying she lay without moan,
And May-time grew dark when descended
A blight on our rose-bud half blown.
Our blossom too early that perished,
Torn rudely from home's ravaged bower,
By soft airs of Paradise nourished
Hath opened its leaves in full flower.
IV.
Fled away when the season was vernalOur waif from a Heavenly shore;
Tired of play, on the bosom maternal
Her head she will pillow no more.
The garland is dust that once bound it,
And changed is its contour to mould;
One curl of the many that crowned it
Alone emits lustre like gold.
V.
Last eve, by the light of stars roaming,I felt that her spirit was nigh,
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Made thus to my quest low reply:
“Drear thoughts of the charnel-house banish,
Hearse, coffin and mouldering urn:
From sight, though the beautiful vanish,
Sometimes they have leave to return.”
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