 | Thought and word |  |
63
IN SHADOW.
Who with set eyelids venturing into yearsThat are not come, like years of long ago,
Can warm those shadows? Dusk, with steps as slow
As mine, crept through the Graveyard, dropping tears
Like one that mourn'd. I mused and mused: methought
Some months, some years were gone, and evening brought
To linger by these graves a pensive Boy.
Amid the twilight stillness deep and lone
He stoops to read an old half buried stone,
And weeds the mosses that almost destroy
The letters of the name, which is—my own.
The wind about the old gray tower makes moan.
He rises from the grave with sadden'd brow,
Leaving it to the night, and sighs, as I do now.
| Thought and word | |