Sonnets at the English Lakes | ||
72
LXXII. THE CHURCHYARD.
Days are there in the seasons of our mindOf warm continual Summer: thither fly—
Led by the soft sure hand of memory—
For genial sun, cold words and thoughts unkind.
And days perpetual Winter you shall find,
Chill, barren, silent: thither slowlier hie
Passionate thoughts, to feel the frost and die,
Or flutter back upon a cooler wind.
And such art thou by Brathay's rushing stream;
Winter and Summer in thy holy ground
Walk hand in hand, nor sun nor snow-times cease:
And if at all the world too icy seem,
With love and warmth glad marriage-bells resound;
If anger stir, dear dead ones beckon peace.
Sonnets at the English Lakes | ||