 | Poems of reflection |  |
49
TRANSPLANTED.
Where the grim old “Mount of Lamentation”
Lifts up its summit like some great dome,
I list for the voices of Inspiration
That rang o'er the meadows and hills of home.
I catch sweet sounds, but I am not near them,
There are vast, vague oceans between us rolled;
Or it may be my heart is too full to hear them
With the eager ear that it lent of old.
Lifts up its summit like some great dome,
I list for the voices of Inspiration
That rang o'er the meadows and hills of home.
I catch sweet sounds, but I am not near them,
There are vast, vague oceans between us rolled;
Or it may be my heart is too full to hear them
With the eager ear that it lent of old.
It is full of the joy of to-day—and to-morrow,
Which smiles with a promise of fresh delight;
And yet my honey is galled with sorrow
As I think of the loved ones out of sight.
I wonder so soon if the dear old places
Are growing used to my absent feet,
I wonder if newer and fairer faces
To the hearts that housed me seem just as sweet.
Which smiles with a promise of fresh delight;
And yet my honey is galled with sorrow
As I think of the loved ones out of sight.
I wonder so soon if the dear old places
Are growing used to my absent feet,
I wonder if newer and fairer faces
To the hearts that housed me seem just as sweet.
I know on the world's great field of battle
When a comrade falls out how the ranks close in;
The strife goes on with its rush and rattle,
And who can tell where he late has been!
When a comrade falls out how the ranks close in;
The strife goes on with its rush and rattle,
And who can tell where he late has been!
| Poems of reflection | |