 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
At Musing Hour.—Thomas Wells
At musing hour of twilight gray,
When silence reigns around,
I love to walk the churchyard way:
To me 'tis holy ground.
When silence reigns around,
I love to walk the churchyard way:
To me 'tis holy ground.
To me, congenial is the place
Where yew and cypress grow;
I love the moss-grown stone to trace,
That tells who lies below.
Where yew and cypress grow;
I love the moss-grown stone to trace,
That tells who lies below.
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And, as the lonely spot I pass
Where weary ones repose,
I think, like them, how soon, alas
My pilgrimage will close.
Where weary ones repose,
I think, like them, how soon, alas
My pilgrimage will close.
Like them, I think, when I am gone,
And soundly sleep as they,
Alike unnoticed and unknown
Shall pass my name away.
And soundly sleep as they,
Alike unnoticed and unknown
Shall pass my name away.
Yet, ah!—and let me lightly tread!—
She sleeps beneath this stone,
That would have soothed my dying bed,
And wept for me when gone!
She sleeps beneath this stone,
That would have soothed my dying bed,
And wept for me when gone!
Her image 'tis—to memory dear—
That clings around my heart,
And makes me fondly linger here,
Unwilling to depart.
That clings around my heart,
And makes me fondly linger here,
Unwilling to depart.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |