[Poems by Bryant in] A biography of William Cullen Bryant with Extracts from his Private Correspondence |
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A MEMORY. |
 | [Poems by Bryant in] A biography of William Cullen Bryant |  |
318
A MEMORY.
“The morn hath not the glory that it wore,
Nor doth the day so beautifully die,
Since I can call thee to my side no more,
To gaze upon the sky.
Nor doth the day so beautifully die,
Since I can call thee to my side no more,
To gaze upon the sky.
“For thy dear hand, with each return of Spring,
I sought in sunny nooks the flowers she gave;
I seek them still, and sorrowfully bring
The choicest to thy grave.
I sought in sunny nooks the flowers she gave;
I seek them still, and sorrowfully bring
The choicest to thy grave.
“Here, where I sit alone, is sometimes heard,
From the great world, a whisper of my name,
Joined, haply, to some kind, commending word,
By those whose praise is fame.
From the great world, a whisper of my name,
Joined, haply, to some kind, commending word,
By those whose praise is fame.
“And then, as if I thought thou still wert nigh,
I turn me, half forgetting thou art dead,
To read the gentle gladness in thine eye,
That once I might have read.
I turn me, half forgetting thou art dead,
To read the gentle gladness in thine eye,
That once I might have read.
319
“I turn, but see thee not; before my eyes
The image of a hillside mound appears,
Where all of thee that passed not to the skies
Was laid with bitter tears.
The image of a hillside mound appears,
Where all of thee that passed not to the skies
Was laid with bitter tears.
“And I, whose thoughts go back to happier days,
That fled with thee, would gladly now resign
All that the world can give of fame and praise,
For one sweet look of thine.
That fled with thee, would gladly now resign
All that the world can give of fame and praise,
For one sweet look of thine.
“Thus, ever, when I read of generous deeds,
Such words as thou didst once delight to hear,
My heart is wrung with anguish as it bleeds
To think thou art not near.
Such words as thou didst once delight to hear,
My heart is wrung with anguish as it bleeds
To think thou art not near.
“And now that I can talk no more with thee
Of ancient friends and days too fair to last,
A bitterness blends with the memory
Of all that happy past.
Of ancient friends and days too fair to last,
A bitterness blends with the memory
Of all that happy past.
“Oh, when I[OMITTED]”
“Roslyn, 1873.”
| [Poems by Bryant in] A biography of William Cullen Bryant | |