 | The book of the dead |  |
184
[XCII. Where violets and daisies spring]
Where violets and daisies spring,
And buttercups nod to and fro,
And the young grasses' golden ring
Clasps the pine's mossy trunk below;
And buttercups nod to and fro,
And the young grasses' golden ring
Clasps the pine's mossy trunk below;
Where the wild locust's branches drop
Their scented snow in eddying showers,
And the magnolia's leafless top
Stars mid-day with its silver flowers;
Their scented snow in eddying showers,
And the magnolia's leafless top
Stars mid-day with its silver flowers;
Where ivy climbs, and myrtle creeps,
And the small lily's bells are hung,
And the proud laurel darkly keeps
Its wreaths for glories yet unsung;
And the small lily's bells are hung,
And the proud laurel darkly keeps
Its wreaths for glories yet unsung;
Where the broad river slowly lags
Round grassy points, or softly draws
Its currents through the tangled flags,
Chased by the breeze's fitful flaws;
Round grassy points, or softly draws
Its currents through the tangled flags,
Chased by the breeze's fitful flaws;
185
Where the wood-robin rears her brood,
And, at the dewy ends of day,
Pours, by no fear of man subdued,
The tender music of her lay;—
And, at the dewy ends of day,
Pours, by no fear of man subdued,
The tender music of her lay;—
There lies a grave; and thither fly
My wildest thoughts, and there they cease;
And all I ask has one reply:
That grave but whispers, “Peace, peace, peace!”
My wildest thoughts, and there they cease;
And all I ask has one reply:
That grave but whispers, “Peace, peace, peace!”
| The book of the dead | |