 | Poems by John Howard Bryant |  |
13
THE MOUNTAIN GRAVE-YARD.
I know a hill with a breast of flowers
Where the swallows play in the summer hours,
Where the grasshopper chirps and the wild bee hums,
And the low of the kine on the cool air comes,
And the soft winds breath with a whispering sigh
From the skirt of the lofty woodland nigh.
There the cheerful sound of the streamlet rings
As it leaps away from the place of springs;
The strawberry blossoms in May dew there,
And ripens its fruit in the summer air;
And the grey squirrel barks in the beechen wood
As he gathers the nuts for his winter food.
'Tis a spot where the daylight latest stays
And earliest comes with its crimson rays,
And life is above where the light winds go,
But the dead are asleep in the earth below.
There are shrubs and wild briars springing round,
And I know by the stones and the swell of the ground
Where the friends that have gone before me lie;
Each one with his feet to the eastern sky;
Yes, the fair young child with its flaxen hair,
And age, with the marks of toil and care,
And youth, with its joys and its hopes so bright,
With a blooming cheek and an eye of light,
And they in the strength and midst of life,
Are gathered here from earth's toil and strife;
And the mean of earth and the good and brave
Lie side by side in the quiet grave.
Where the swallows play in the summer hours,
Where the grasshopper chirps and the wild bee hums,
And the low of the kine on the cool air comes,
And the soft winds breath with a whispering sigh
From the skirt of the lofty woodland nigh.
There the cheerful sound of the streamlet rings
As it leaps away from the place of springs;
The strawberry blossoms in May dew there,
And ripens its fruit in the summer air;
And the grey squirrel barks in the beechen wood
As he gathers the nuts for his winter food.
'Tis a spot where the daylight latest stays
And earliest comes with its crimson rays,
And life is above where the light winds go,
But the dead are asleep in the earth below.
There are shrubs and wild briars springing round,
And I know by the stones and the swell of the ground
Where the friends that have gone before me lie;
Each one with his feet to the eastern sky;
Yes, the fair young child with its flaxen hair,
And age, with the marks of toil and care,
And youth, with its joys and its hopes so bright,
14
And they in the strength and midst of life,
Are gathered here from earth's toil and strife;
And the mean of earth and the good and brave
Lie side by side in the quiet grave.
I go to that spot when the early flowers
Awake on these bright sunny hills of ours;
When the airs of the south breath over the plain,
And the blue bird sings in the woods again;
When, waked by rains from their winter rest,
Brook calls to brook on the mountain's breast,
And the young leaves dance in each passing breath,
I often visit these haunts of death.
Awake on these bright sunny hills of ours;
When the airs of the south breath over the plain,
And the blue bird sings in the woods again;
When, waked by rains from their winter rest,
Brook calls to brook on the mountain's breast,
And the young leaves dance in each passing breath,
I often visit these haunts of death.
When the summer comes, with its sultry heat,
And fierce on the earth the sunbeams beat;
When the leaf on the poplar's bough is still,
And hushed is the voice of the mountain rill;
When the tall grass droops in the torrid glare,
And no sound is abroad in the motionless air,
I wander there for a breath of the gale
That's a stranger then in my native vale.
And fierce on the earth the sunbeams beat;
When the leaf on the poplar's bough is still,
And hushed is the voice of the mountain rill;
When the tall grass droops in the torrid glare,
And no sound is abroad in the motionless air,
I wander there for a breath of the gale
That's a stranger then in my native vale.
When the maize on the autumn hills is white,
And the yellow forests are bathed in light;
When the sun looks down with a milder ray,
And the dry leaves whirl in the gust away;
When the evening comes with glorious hues,
And the crimson clouds distill their dews;
When the winds of the icy north are still,
I sometimes visit this lonely hill.
And the yellow forests are bathed in light;
When the sun looks down with a milder ray,
15
When the evening comes with glorious hues,
And the crimson clouds distill their dews;
When the winds of the icy north are still,
I sometimes visit this lonely hill.
And I've followed the corpse of a parent there
Through the winter's wild and sleety air,
When the deep snows over the mountains lay,
And the voiceless streams flowed slowly away.
We buried him there when the north winds blew,
And our tears fell fast like the summer dew,
And like ice to our hearts the cold earth slid,
With a hollow sound, on his coffin lid.
Through the winter's wild and sleety air,
When the deep snows over the mountains lay,
And the voiceless streams flowed slowly away.
We buried him there when the north winds blew,
And our tears fell fast like the summer dew,
And like ice to our hearts the cold earth slid,
With a hollow sound, on his coffin lid.
And still as the years of my life depart
Shall that lonely spot be dear to my heart;
For many a friend of my earlier days,
Who journeyed with me life's toilsome ways,
There lies in his long, long dreamless rest,
With the damp earth clinging around his breast;
And a voice comes up from each grassy tomb
As I tread those paths in the twilight's gloom,
That tells me the hours of my own brief day
Are swiftly and silently passing away.
Shall that lonely spot be dear to my heart;
For many a friend of my earlier days,
Who journeyed with me life's toilsome ways,
There lies in his long, long dreamless rest,
With the damp earth clinging around his breast;
And a voice comes up from each grassy tomb
As I tread those paths in the twilight's gloom,
That tells me the hours of my own brief day
Are swiftly and silently passing away.
| Poems by John Howard Bryant | |