 | Poems |  |
107
EVENING SHADOWS.
In dream of thought to be among the yearsThat are not born, like years of long ago,
Who bows not, trembling? Dusk, with steps as slow
As mine, crept through the churchyard, dropping tears
Like one that mourned. I mused and mused; methought
Some months, some years were gone, and in that spot
Of graves is lingering a thoughtful 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 grey tower makes moan.
He rises from the grave with saddened brow,
And leaves it to the night, and sighs, as I do now.
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