The Poetry of Real Life A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison |
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ON SEEING A GRAVE-STONE. |
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 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
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ON SEEING A GRAVE-STONE.
And is this all that now remains
Of thee, thou good and lovely one,
An idle name, which, with some pains,
We trace on this weed-cumbered stone?
Of thee, thou good and lovely one,
An idle name, which, with some pains,
We trace on this weed-cumbered stone?
These few, poor letters on it writ,
How little can they tell of thee!
The passer-by sees but in it
A grave, but 'tis thy grave to me!
How little can they tell of thee!
The passer-by sees but in it
A grave, but 'tis thy grave to me!
Weeds only on it grow, alas!
For flowers here should flourish none,
When thou, the fairest, so could'st pass,
As tho' Earth had not thee alone!
For flowers here should flourish none,
When thou, the fairest, so could'st pass,
As tho' Earth had not thee alone!
A few, poor letters! yes! a few,
Poor, common letters! yet, in all
The alphabet, what letters do
On eye or ear like those few fall?
Poor, common letters! yet, in all
The alphabet, what letters do
On eye or ear like those few fall?
I do remember thee in days
Of which thou wert the hope and light:
But now this cold-lipp'd marble says
That thou canst no more bless my sight!
Of which thou wert the hope and light:
But now this cold-lipp'd marble says
That thou canst no more bless my sight!
I do not weep: my breast is too,
Too full, itself in tears to vent,
But it doth think such thoughts as thro'
The heart, that thinks and breaks, are sent!
Too full, itself in tears to vent,
But it doth think such thoughts as thro'
The heart, that thinks and breaks, are sent!
Is this thy grave, thou lovely one!
Art thou indeed beneath this sod?
And is it I who stand upon
Thy grave! have mercy on me, God.
Art thou indeed beneath this sod?
And is it I who stand upon
Thy grave! have mercy on me, God.
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This grass, tho' rank, is fresh and green,
I cannot think that it is so!
It speaks of what is, not has been:
Then why shouldst thou lie here below?
I cannot think that it is so!
It speaks of what is, not has been:
Then why shouldst thou lie here below?
Why should the meanest thing thus live,
When thou, the fairest, best of all,
Wert but allowed so long to live
To show that best things soonest fall?
When thou, the fairest, best of all,
Wert but allowed so long to live
To show that best things soonest fall?
Few feet of earth now sever me
From all I loved, my life's sole star;
Few feet! oh bitter mockery!
So small the space, and yet so far!
From all I loved, my life's sole star;
Few feet! oh bitter mockery!
So small the space, and yet so far!
'Tis but a little, crumbling sod,
A shovelfull of niggard earth:
Why dost Thou sever thus, O God,
With such things, things of heavenly worth?
A shovelfull of niggard earth:
Why dost Thou sever thus, O God,
With such things, things of heavenly worth?
Thou canst not hear my cry of woe,
Or else thy gentle voice would speak:
Tho' grief be noisy here, below
Is silence which no tongue can break!
Or else thy gentle voice would speak:
Tho' grief be noisy here, below
Is silence which no tongue can break!
Oh grave, that thou wouldst ope to me,
That, crumbling dust to dust, my heart
Might blend with thine, and henceforth be
Joined never, never more, to part!
That, crumbling dust to dust, my heart
Might blend with thine, and henceforth be
Joined never, never more, to part!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |