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First Line: O sacred ground, in wandering back to thee
Last Line: "while life and thought remain."
Subject(s): Forests; France; Graves; Sand, George (1804-1876); Time; Woods; Tombs; Tombstones; Dupin, Amanda. Baronne Dudevant


O sacred ground, in wandering back to thee
I thought to suffer though I hoped to weep;
Thou dearest grave unhonoured save by me,
Where hallowed memories sleep.

What find ye in this solitude to dread,
My friends? Why draw me by the hand away?
When habit grown so old and sweet, hath led
My footsteps here to stray.

I see the uplands and the blooming heath,
The silvery pathway o'er the noiseless sand,
The walks still redolent of lovers' breath,
Where hand was clasped in hand.

The mountain gorge's careless tracks I mark,
Familiar murmurs once again I hear
From ancient pine trees, crowned with verdure dark,
That soothed my boyhood's ear.

Here is the greenwood where my youth once more
Sings like a choir of birds upon a tree;
Fair moorland where my mistress strayed of yore
Didst thou not look for me?

Nay let them flow, these welcome, blissful tears,
That from a heart still bleeding take their rise,
And let the mist that veils long-buried years
Refresh my aching eyes.

These woods are witness that I once was blest,
Through them no echoes of a dirge shall roll;
Proud is this forest in its peaceful rest
And proud too is my soul.

With bitter cries let some bereaved one rave,
Who kneels despairing by a comrade's tomb,
Here all breathes life—the flowerets of the grave
Here cannot bud or bloom.

Behold! the moon is rising o'er the glade:
Thy glance still trembles, lovely queen of night!
But soon, dispelling the horizon's shade,
Thine orb shall glow with light.

As all the perfumes of the vanished day
Rise from the earth still moistened with the dew,
So from my chastened soul beneath thy ray
Old love is born anew.

Where are the sorrows gone that made me pale
And left me prematurely old with pain?
I grow, while gazing on this friendly vale,
A joyous child again.

Oh! tender might of Time—oh! fleeting hours,
Ye stanch each tear and stifle each regret,
And, in your pity, on our faded flowers
Your feet are never set.

I bless thee Time, kind angel of relief;
I had not thought love's wound could e'er conceal
Anguish so keen, or that a victim's grief
Could be so sweet to feel.

Far be from me each time-worn thought and phrase.
That oft in heartless epitaphs are read,
Wherewith the man who never loved, displays
His feelings for the dead.

Dante, thou saidst that in the hour of woe
Remembered happiness is sorrow's curse;
What grief was thine that thus could overflow
In that embittered verse?

Must we forget that ever in the skies,
E'en when our night is darkest, light appears?
Didst thou spurn sorrow, thou, whose mournful eyes
Poured forth immortal tears?

No! by yon moon whose beams illume my glance,
That vaunted blasphemy was not thy creed;
Remembered happiness on earth perchance
May happiness exceed.

Heaven on my head its lightnings now may fling,
This memory cannot from my heart be torn;
To this, though wrecked by tempests, I will cling
Like mariner forlorn.

And oft I murmur: "At this time and place
I loved one day and I was loved again;
Time has no power the picture to efface,
While life and thought remain."





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