 | English Roses |  |
IN MY GRAVE.
I lie among these holy hills
Which nearer come to God,
Bathed in the majesty that fills
The world with wonderment and thrills
Alike the sun and sod,
In blowing wind and flowing wave, and beautifies the clod.
The miracle and hush
Of peaceful places and broad spaces,
Here to their glory rush;
Afar from sordid strife,
I read in roots and upward shoots
The mystery of life.
Which nearer come to God,
Bathed in the majesty that fills
The world with wonderment and thrills
Alike the sun and sod,
In blowing wind and flowing wave, and beautifies the clod.
The miracle and hush
Of peaceful places and broad spaces,
Here to their glory rush;
Afar from sordid strife,
I read in roots and upward shoots
The mystery of life.
I love the quiet of the dust,
After the fevered fret
And angry arms that fain would thrust
Away my simple touch of trust
And eyes with weeping wet—
The eager aims and meagre acts are fancies I forget.
It's always evening now,
And to the glaring force and staring
Deceit I need not bow;
I only rest and dream,
Care murmurs on as it has done
Above me like a stream.
After the fevered fret
And angry arms that fain would thrust
Away my simple touch of trust
And eyes with weeping wet—
The eager aims and meagre acts are fancies I forget.
It's always evening now,
And to the glaring force and staring
Deceit I need not bow;
I only rest and dream,
Care murmurs on as it has done
Above me like a stream.
The robin that we used to pet,
Will sometimes come and sing
As though it did remember yet
Amid the snowdrops which are set
About my bed in Spring—
The throbbing throat and sobbing breath keep concert with its wing.
I see its crimson breast,
And here its calling with the falling
Of daylight in the West;
It almost seems a wrong,
I do not live and cannot give
An answer to the song.
Will sometimes come and sing
As though it did remember yet
Amid the snowdrops which are set
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The throbbing throat and sobbing breath keep concert with its wing.
I see its crimson breast,
And here its calling with the falling
Of daylight in the West;
It almost seems a wrong,
I do not live and cannot give
An answer to the song.
But now I have become so wise,
Within my chamber dim
Where secrets may no more surprise,
I would not if I could arise
To earth's mere outer rim
Of fruitless lore and bootless love and idle vague surmise.
For here I really know
The sum and centre, and do enter
The core of things below;
For in the hidden womb
Of miry clay dark pulses play—
The birthplace is the tomb.
Within my chamber dim
Where secrets may no more surprise,
I would not if I could arise
To earth's mere outer rim
Of fruitless lore and bootless love and idle vague surmise.
For here I really know
The sum and centre, and do enter
The core of things below;
For in the hidden womb
Of miry clay dark pulses play—
The birthplace is the tomb.
If children come and chat and sit
Among the bees and grass,
I feel as though new sunbeams lit
Upon them and my tale was writ
In words that never pass—
By burning thought and yearning deep more strong than stone and brass.
My epitaph is truth,
Set forth in simple faiths that dimple
The rosy cheeks of youth;
It's blessed to have been,
When baby lips deny eclipse
And keep my memory green.
Among the bees and grass,
I feel as though new sunbeams lit
Upon them and my tale was writ
In words that never pass—
By burning thought and yearning deep more strong than stone and brass.
My epitaph is truth,
Set forth in simple faiths that dimple
The rosy cheeks of youth;
It's blessed to have been,
When baby lips deny eclipse
And keep my memory green.
But thus I turn a boy again
Who may not ever die,
And do not at my lot complain,
But in the very grave maintain
A fresh and fairer tie
With growing plants and glowing rays as here at rest I lie.
I send my greetings up
With shining showers and in the flowers,
Daisy and buttercup;
I learn all Nature's arts—
How leaf and thorn are dumbly born,
And live in loyal hearts.
Who may not ever die,
And do not at my lot complain,
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A fresh and fairer tie
With growing plants and glowing rays as here at rest I lie.
I send my greetings up
With shining showers and in the flowers,
Daisy and buttercup;
I learn all Nature's arts—
How leaf and thorn are dumbly born,
And live in loyal hearts.
| English Roses | |