 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
113
SEVENTEEN.
Seventeen long years ago! and still
The hillock newly-heaped I see,
Which hid beneath its heavy chill
One who has never died to me;—
And since, the leaves which o'er it wave
Have been kept green by raining tears;
Strange how the shadow of a grave
Could fall across so many years!
The hillock newly-heaped I see,
Which hid beneath its heavy chill
One who has never died to me;—
And since, the leaves which o'er it wave
Have been kept green by raining tears;
Strange how the shadow of a grave
Could fall across so many years!
Seventeen long years ago! No cross,
No urn nor monument is there,
But drooping leaves and starry moss
Bend softly in the summer air;
The one I would have died to save
Sleeps sweetly, free from griefs and fears;
Strange how the shadow of a grave
Could fall across so many years!
No urn nor monument is there,
But drooping leaves and starry moss
Bend softly in the summer air;
The one I would have died to save
Sleeps sweetly, free from griefs and fears;
Strange how the shadow of a grave
Could fall across so many years!
114
Seventeen long years ago! I see
The hand I held so long in vain,
The lips I pressed despairingly
Because they answered not again:
I see again the shining wave
Of the dark hair be-gemmed with tears,—
Strange how the shadow of a grave
Could fall across so many years!
The hand I held so long in vain,
The lips I pressed despairingly
Because they answered not again:
I see again the shining wave
Of the dark hair be-gemmed with tears,—
Strange how the shadow of a grave
Could fall across so many years!
Seventeen long years ago! The hand
Then fondly clasped, still holds my own,
Leading me gently to the land
Where storm and shadow are unknown;
The summons which I gladly crave
Will come like music to my ears,
And the chill shadow of the grave
Be changed to light, ere many years!
Then fondly clasped, still holds my own,
Leading me gently to the land
Where storm and shadow are unknown;
The summons which I gladly crave
Will come like music to my ears,
And the chill shadow of the grave
Be changed to light, ere many years!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |