Laurella and other poems by John Todhunter |
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 | Laurella and other poems |  |
In this old churchyard,
Where the unsparing hand of Time has marred
The rude inscription on each fall'n headstone,
Yet gently touched the spot—that it has grown
The solemner for it, I could grow one with rest.
The sun has crowned the silence of the west
With a pale glory—like the aureole
Round a saint's forehead, when the parting soul
Stands tiptoe for its flight. The wan light falls
Upon the grey church porch, and ivied walls,
And time-worn tower—transfiguring the place
To something mystic in its dreamlike grace.
The very nettles give a sense of peace;
The simple weeds that feel the day's increase
Through all their blood, upsprouting lush and rank
Under the hedge—or crown yon brambly bank
With branching umbels; the meek celandine;
Ivy, whose leaves and clustered berries shine
In the grave light; this speedwell at my feet,
Seem all parts of a vision strange and sweet:
Seen once and since forgotten—ages past,
Now dimly understood.
255
The rude inscription on each fall'n headstone,
Yet gently touched the spot—that it has grown
The solemner for it, I could grow one with rest.
The sun has crowned the silence of the west
With a pale glory—like the aureole
Round a saint's forehead, when the parting soul
Stands tiptoe for its flight. The wan light falls
Upon the grey church porch, and ivied walls,
And time-worn tower—transfiguring the place
To something mystic in its dreamlike grace.
The very nettles give a sense of peace;
The simple weeds that feel the day's increase
Through all their blood, upsprouting lush and rank
Under the hedge—or crown yon brambly bank
With branching umbels; the meek celandine;
Ivy, whose leaves and clustered berries shine
In the grave light; this speedwell at my feet,
Seem all parts of a vision strange and sweet:
Seen once and since forgotten—ages past,
Now dimly understood.
| Laurella and other poems | |