A Child of the People And Other Poems. By James Chapman Woods |
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A GRAVE IN THE HILLS.
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 | A Child of the People |  |
60
A GRAVE IN THE HILLS.
“N., aged 20.”
“Until the day dawn and the shadows flee away.”
Just a poet's dream, you know.
On the hill-height, all alone there,
One white grave with flowers ablow,
And the legend terse and tender,—
How my heart must hear a moan there!—
Make me sad for all spring's splendour.
On the hill-height, all alone there,
One white grave with flowers ablow,
And the legend terse and tender,—
How my heart must hear a moan there!—
Make me sad for all spring's splendour.
Oh, be sure she shall sleep well!
Solemn hills lift each a finger,
And the wild winds heed the spell.
Sad rooks restful music make her.
Very still are we who linger,
Stepping softly lest we wake her.
Solemn hills lift each a finger,
And the wild winds heed the spell.
Sad rooks restful music make her.
Very still are we who linger,
Stepping softly lest we wake her.
Do you ever dream she dreams?
That the flowers all summer woo her
In the dark with songs of streams,—
Shine, her lamps amid the shadows?
Creeping rains too carry to her
Stories of the golden meadows.
That the flowers all summer woo her
In the dark with songs of streams,—
Shine, her lamps amid the shadows?
Creeping rains too carry to her
Stories of the golden meadows.
61
What a little life she had!
How could burst the aloe-blossom?
Should we, say, be grieved or glad,
Seeing, ere they triple seven,
Set in many a stainless bosom,
Souls grown ripe enough for heaven?
How could burst the aloe-blossom?
Should we, say, be grieved or glad,
Seeing, ere they triple seven,
Set in many a stainless bosom,
Souls grown ripe enough for heaven?
“'Till the shadows flee away!”
Ah! the creed is over-cruel.
Chokes the soul then in its clay?
Shall the shadows, for a minute,
Hide the lustre of a jewel
That has God's own glory in it?
Ah! the creed is over-cruel.
Chokes the soul then in its clay?
Shall the shadows, for a minute,
Hide the lustre of a jewel
That has God's own glory in it?
Ah, but rest! How sweet it were
To lie still with worn hands crossing,
Weary, with no need to stir,—
Dreaming of no load to carry!
There should be no fretful tossing,
Though awhile the dawn might tarry.
To lie still with worn hands crossing,
Weary, with no need to stir,—
Dreaming of no load to carry!
There should be no fretful tossing,
Though awhile the dawn might tarry.
Just a poet's dream, you know.
Round her grave the shadows wander
Half a circle ere I go,—
Ere I bid the dead “Good even!”
She will see the dawning yonder
Early, lain so near to heaven!
Round her grave the shadows wander
Half a circle ere I go,—
Ere I bid the dead “Good even!”
She will see the dawning yonder
Early, lain so near to heaven!
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Her grave is on the hill-top all alone;
Her years scarce twenty told.
If she look up, she sees upon the stone
That text in graven gold.
The shadows lift not yet, the dawn is hid;
Heed not how far it be;
But when they lay me next your coffin-lid,
Waken and turn to me!
Her years scarce twenty told.
If she look up, she sees upon the stone
That text in graven gold.
The shadows lift not yet, the dawn is hid;
Heed not how far it be;
But when they lay me next your coffin-lid,
Waken and turn to me!
| A Child of the People | |