 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
The buried Love.—Rufus Dawes.
“I have often thought that flowers were the alphabet of angels, whereby they write on hills and fields mysterious truths.”—
The Rebels.
She sleeps the quiet sleep of death,
The maid who lies below,
And these are angel-missioned flowers,
That o'er the green turf grow.
The maid who lies below,
And these are angel-missioned flowers,
That o'er the green turf grow.
And they are sent to warn the fair,
How transient is their bloom;
See, how they bend their tender forms,
And weep upon her tomb.
How transient is their bloom;
See, how they bend their tender forms,
And weep upon her tomb.
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The blush upon her living cheek
Had shamed the morning skies;
And diamond light is not more bright
Than were her youthful eyes.
Had shamed the morning skies;
And diamond light is not more bright
Than were her youthful eyes.
To see her on a summer's day,
Gave love a lighter wing;
And happy thoughts would crowd the heart,
And gush from many a spring.
Gave love a lighter wing;
And happy thoughts would crowd the heart,
And gush from many a spring.
I know the language of the flowers,
And love to hear them grieve,—
When crimsoning to the eye of morn,
Or drooping to the eve.
And love to hear them grieve,—
When crimsoning to the eye of morn,
Or drooping to the eve.
I listened when the star of love
Shone through the blue serene,
When twilight held her silent wake,
Beneath the crested queen.
Shone through the blue serene,
When twilight held her silent wake,
Beneath the crested queen.
They told of her whose spirit come
To breathe upon their leaves;
And can I choose but love the breath
That once was Genevieve's?
To breathe upon their leaves;
And can I choose but love the breath
That once was Genevieve's?
She's gone where sorrows may not come,
Where pain may never be;
But she, who lives an angel still,
May sometimes think of me.
Where pain may never be;
But she, who lives an angel still,
May sometimes think of me.
Though gone, alas! her blushing smile,
Who sleeps in sweet repose,
I joy to find its mimic grace
Still living in the rose.
Who sleeps in sweet repose,
I joy to find its mimic grace
Still living in the rose.
Then when I love the modest flower,
And cherish it with tears,
It minds me of my fleeting time,
Yet chases all my fears.
And cherish it with tears,
It minds me of my fleeting time,
Yet chases all my fears.
And when my hour of rest shall be,
I will not weep my doom;
So angel-missioned flowers may come
And gather round my tomb!
I will not weep my doom;
So angel-missioned flowers may come
And gather round my tomb!
| The American common-place book of poetry | |