By a Poet’s Grave.
The Spring has come and gone,1
Yet silent sleeps he on ;2
His poet-heart unstirred3
By leaf or song of bird.4
Though daisies dot the lea,5
And blossoms crowd the tree ;6
Though Earth responsive all7
Awakes from Winter’s thrall,8
And finds restored what Autumn had decayed,9
No Spring-tide reaches where the dead are laid.10
The Summer calls in vain ;11
Not here he wakes again.12
The south wind’s balmy breath13
Woos not the ear of Death.14
Not all the wealth of flowers—15
Not all the sunlit hours16
Making Earth glorious,17
Can bring him back to us.18
And for his sake, but half is ours, I ween,19
Of Summer’s gladness and its golden sheen,20
Then, pensive, Autumn come,21
With woodlands bleak and dumb,22
When garnered are thy sheaves,23
And shed thy flowers and leaves—24
Come, veiled, his grave to greet25
Who, laid at Nature’s feet,26
Had listened rapt and long27
To learn her matchless song.28
Come, wail him, Autumn winds and weeping skies ;29
Moisten the sod where our dead darling lies.30
Yet let him sleep, nor rave.31
The boon we idly crave,32
That he might live again33
In mortal strife and pain,34
Though joy to us it brought,35
For him were dearly bought.36
Then let him sleep, great heart,37
Since but the grosser part38
To dust is given, and where his spirit wakes,39
The dawn of heaven’s eternal Summer breaks—40
And though his sun be set41
For us—a glory yet42
Beams on us through our tears,43
That all the after-years44
A light and guide will be—45
A hallowed memory.46
He liveth still—above,47
And lives he in our love.48
And though, alas, the cold grave lies between,49
That love will keep his grave for ever green.50