 | Days and Hours |  |
314
THE GARLANDS OF MEMORY.
I
When Memory in the gloom of cypress bowers
Unwove her garlands, she laid down with sighs
Mournfully, one by one, the wither'd flowers
That were at morn the light of her sad eyes;
The wild buds she had gather'd had drunk up
Their matin dew, and died; gray dust of Death
Lay desolate in the Lily's silver cup,
The red Rose breathed not its voluptuous breath;
Unwove her garlands, she laid down with sighs
Mournfully, one by one, the wither'd flowers
That were at morn the light of her sad eyes;
The wild buds she had gather'd had drunk up
Their matin dew, and died; gray dust of Death
Lay desolate in the Lily's silver cup,
The red Rose breathed not its voluptuous breath;
She said ‘the light is dying,
'Tis nigh the end of Day,
Cease, heart, Oh! cease thy sighing,
We must away, away!’
'Tis nigh the end of Day,
Cease, heart, Oh! cease thy sighing,
We must away, away!’
315
II
Their drooping graces, and their dusky hues,
Their faint sweets telling of the morning time,
Pleaded to her so well, she could not choose
But love them faded better than their prime;
She held them up before her aching sight,
She breathed fond sighs to spread them out again;
She laid their dim soft leaves across the light,
And gave them tender tears, like Autumn rain:
She sang ‘the Sun is leaving
The blessed Summer-day,
Cease, heart, ah! cease thy grieving
We must away, away!’
Their faint sweets telling of the morning time,
Pleaded to her so well, she could not choose
But love them faded better than their prime;
She held them up before her aching sight,
She breathed fond sighs to spread them out again;
She laid their dim soft leaves across the light,
And gave them tender tears, like Autumn rain:
She sang ‘the Sun is leaving
The blessed Summer-day,
Cease, heart, ah! cease thy grieving
We must away, away!’
III
Then blamed she the swift Sun, whose eager touch
Had stolen all their beauty's early treasure—
The Wind, that had been wanton overmuch,
And drawn their life forth with excess of pleasure;
Her tears could not awake their bloom again,
In vain against her mournful heart they lay;
Her tenderest tears could wash away no stain,
Her beating heart but shed their leaves away:
Had stolen all their beauty's early treasure—
The Wind, that had been wanton overmuch,
And drawn their life forth with excess of pleasure;
Her tears could not awake their bloom again,
In vain against her mournful heart they lay;
Her tenderest tears could wash away no stain,
Her beating heart but shed their leaves away:
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She mourn'd ‘the Sun is setting,
It is the end of Day,
Cease, heart, ah! cease regretting,
We must away, away!’
It is the end of Day,
Cease, heart, ah! cease regretting,
We must away, away!’
IV
At last she found some leaves of Eglatere,
Whose circling spray had bound those flowers in one;
She said ‘I will not weep, while thou art here,
Whose odor, and fresh leaf outlives the Sun;
Green wert thou in the early morning shine,
Green art thou still at even—a holy wreath
Of pale, sweet flowers for me thou still mayst twine,
When I go forth to be the bride of Death!’
Whose circling spray had bound those flowers in one;
She said ‘I will not weep, while thou art here,
Whose odor, and fresh leaf outlives the Sun;
Green wert thou in the early morning shine,
Green art thou still at even—a holy wreath
Of pale, sweet flowers for me thou still mayst twine,
When I go forth to be the bride of Death!’
She sigh'd, ‘the Sun is set,
It is no longer Day;
Oh! heart, couldst thou forget!—
But, come, away, away!’
It is no longer Day;
Oh! heart, couldst thou forget!—
But, come, away, away!’
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