 | English Roses |  |
IN A CHURCHYARD.
Some day here will be my final home,
Under this dear dome
Roofed with silver clouds and roses blue—
Here my mortal due;
Then this body with the thoughts that burn
Surely will return,
With its madness and its human mirth
Earth unto the earth,
With its hopes and fears and heavenly flashes
Ashes unto ashes,
With its glory and its simple trust
Dust unto the dust.
Under this dear dome
Roofed with silver clouds and roses blue—
Here my mortal due;
Then this body with the thoughts that burn
Surely will return,
With its madness and its human mirth
Earth unto the earth,
With its hopes and fears and heavenly flashes
Ashes unto ashes,
With its glory and its simple trust
Dust unto the dust.
Funeral bells are ringing in my heart
As I muse apart,
Shadowed with the curtain that must fall
Over me and all;
Hark, with muffled measured beat they toll
For the passing soul,
Far away and deep within my breast
Tuned to dim unrest!
And the force and fulness of mere being
Burst in sudden seeing,
As with inward eyes and other strength
I behold at length.
As I muse apart,
Shadowed with the curtain that must fall
Over me and all;
Hark, with muffled measured beat they toll
For the passing soul,
Far away and deep within my breast
Tuned to dim unrest!
And the force and fulness of mere being
Burst in sudden seeing,
As with inward eyes and other strength
I behold at length.
Graves all open, and their tenants rise
Now with radiant eyes
And in reverend beauty as of old,
From the crumbling mould;
Old and young with kindly gestures come,
And in splendour some
Crowned with graces that no tongue can tell
And a spirit spell;
Hoary heads by trouble scarred and shaken
In their ripeness taken,
Golden girls with lips that blossom up
Like a crimson cup.
Now with radiant eyes
And in reverend beauty as of old,
375
Old and young with kindly gestures come,
And in splendour some
Crowned with graces that no tongue can tell
And a spirit spell;
Hoary heads by trouble scarred and shaken
In their ripeness taken,
Golden girls with lips that blossom up
Like a crimson cup.
All renewed and glorified and fair
With the early air
Of our common fellowship and kin,
But without the sin
And the sorrow and the ills that fruit
From that bitter root;
All rejoicing in a conquering calm,
Breath of holy balm;
Baby forms about the churchyard patter
On the flowers they scatter,
And within my heart in happy swells
Ring the marriage bells.
With the early air
Of our common fellowship and kin,
But without the sin
And the sorrow and the ills that fruit
From that bitter root;
All rejoicing in a conquering calm,
Breath of holy balm;
Baby forms about the churchyard patter
On the flowers they scatter,
And within my heart in happy swells
Ring the marriage bells.
| English Roses | |