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A MEMORY.
Only a little verdant lane,
Where odorous pine-trees quiver,
And every breeze that softly blows
Makes the lithe aspens shiver;
A whisper scarce the ear hath heard,
For such a song of brook and bird.
Where odorous pine-trees quiver,
And every breeze that softly blows
Makes the lithe aspens shiver;
A whisper scarce the ear hath heard,
For such a song of brook and bird.
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Only a bit of mother Earth,
Set thick with flowers and grasses,
Where leaves are green and violets blue
And the light south-wind passes,
A summer sweetness in the air,
And summer's music everywhere.
Set thick with flowers and grasses,
Where leaves are green and violets blue
And the light south-wind passes,
A summer sweetness in the air,
And summer's music everywhere.
It looks a trysting place to be
Where lovers true might wander,
Or on divine philosophy
Some saintly dreamer ponder.
A fair and peaceful solitude,
Where nothing evil dare intrude.
Where lovers true might wander,
Or on divine philosophy
Some saintly dreamer ponder.
A fair and peaceful solitude,
Where nothing evil dare intrude.
Yet terror fills my secret soul,
And June is like December,
Whenever by that path I pass,
Whenever I remember
The dread, the anguish, the despair,
That filled my tortured spirit there.
And June is like December,
Whenever by that path I pass,
Whenever I remember
The dread, the anguish, the despair,
That filled my tortured spirit there.
Far rather would I see the fires
Of earth's most savage mountain;
Or tread the desert's fatal sands,
Or drink its bitterest fountain,
Than those green woods, those blossoms sweet,
Or the cold brooklet at their feet.
Of earth's most savage mountain;
Or tread the desert's fatal sands,
Or drink its bitterest fountain,
Than those green woods, those blossoms sweet,
Or the cold brooklet at their feet.
Ah! cruel records keeps the earth,
On her broad bosom sleeping;
Her face is writ with scars of woe,
Her blossoms wet with weeping
The loveliest spot she hath may be
Some lonely soul's Gethsemane.
On her broad bosom sleeping;
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Her blossoms wet with weeping
The loveliest spot she hath may be
Some lonely soul's Gethsemane.
Thank God, she will not always last!
There will be some to-morrow,
When all her memories shall be gone,
Her record, and her sorrow;
When He who made her shall restore
Her pure and primal state once more.
There will be some to-morrow,
When all her memories shall be gone,
Her record, and her sorrow;
When He who made her shall restore
Her pure and primal state once more.
Stratton Brook, July 24th, 1872.
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