University of Virginia Library

1  FAR hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty,
Crouching over a grave, an ancient sorrowful mother,
Once a queen — now lean and tatter'd, seated on the      ground,
Her old white hair drooping dishevel'd round her shoul-     ders;
At her feet fallen an unused royal harp,
Long silent — she too long silent — mourning her shroud-     ed hope and heir;
Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, because      most full of love.
2  Yet a word, ancient mother;
You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground,      with forehead between your knees;
O you need not sit there, veil'd in your old white      hair, so dishevel'd;
For know you, the one you mourn is not in that grave;
It was an illusion — the heir, the son you love, was not      really dead;
The Lord is not dead — he is risen again, young and      strong, in another country;
Even while you wept there by your fallen harp, by the      grave,
What you wept for, was translated, pass'd from the      grave,
The winds favor'd, and the sea sail'd it,
And now with rosy and new blood,
Moves to-day in a new country.