 | Poems of house and home |  |
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THE LAND OF MEMORY.
Deep in some far enchanted sunshine closed,
(We sigh and dream but pass forever on,)
Shines a fair Land. The glad young Morning there
Comes up as rosily from the lighted East
As over the green walls of Paradise;
There noonday gathers only blissful calm;
There twilight nestles, a still bird of Heaven,
With purple wings o'er soft delicious vales.
Oh, you may know the beauty of that Land
By those that travel hither from its bounds—
Through the cold faces, through the shapes malign
That gather round us, through the dreary toils
That bar us like a prison, lo! they come,
By sweet enchantment opening doors of air!
(We sigh and dream but pass forever on,)
Shines a fair Land. The glad young Morning there
Comes up as rosily from the lighted East
As over the green walls of Paradise;
There noonday gathers only blissful calm;
There twilight nestles, a still bird of Heaven,
With purple wings o'er soft delicious vales.
Oh, you may know the beauty of that Land
By those that travel hither from its bounds—
Through the cold faces, through the shapes malign
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That bar us like a prison, lo! they come,
By sweet enchantment opening doors of air!
It is no silent Land!—the joyous birds,
That filled lost hours so full with singing, sing
From sunlit bough to bough, shaking the leaves
Among the dancing blossoms of the rain
In sunshine, while the rainbow clings above;
And dear blithe brooks leap on, forever, laughing,
Prattling their silver fancies everywhere,
Like children lost whom all things know and love.
Ah, 't is no silent Land, for they are there,
Kind words, there never dead, from voices kind,
That feed the longing of the soul with love.
That filled lost hours so full with singing, sing
From sunlit bough to bough, shaking the leaves
Among the dancing blossoms of the rain
In sunshine, while the rainbow clings above;
And dear blithe brooks leap on, forever, laughing,
Prattling their silver fancies everywhere,
Like children lost whom all things know and love.
Ah, 't is no silent Land, for they are there,
Kind words, there never dead, from voices kind,
That feed the longing of the soul with love.
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Transplanted deep in that enchanted earth,
Nothing grows old, leaves fall not, nor flowers die;
The plow of change goes over no old graves
In the dear face and in the loving heart.
O loveliest Land in all the sphere of Time!—
Far green oasis girt by restless sand,
Circling with barren sky our empty life,
While with tired limbs and thirsty lips we yearn
For its bright fountains glittering to our eyes,
Only returning to returning dreams!—
O ever-blossoming Land of Memory!
Nothing grows old, leaves fall not, nor flowers die;
The plow of change goes over no old graves
In the dear face and in the loving heart.
O loveliest Land in all the sphere of Time!—
Far green oasis girt by restless sand,
Circling with barren sky our empty life,
While with tired limbs and thirsty lips we yearn
For its bright fountains glittering to our eyes,
Only returning to returning dreams!—
O ever-blossoming Land of Memory!
| Poems of house and home | |