SHE sits alone on the cold grave-stone And only the dead are nigh her; In the tongue of the Gael she makes her wail: The night wind rushes by her. 'Few, oh few are the leal and true, And fewer shall be, and fewer; The land is a corse; no life, no force: O wind with sere leaves strew her! 'Men ask what scope is left for hope To one who has known her story: -- I trust her dead! The graves are red; But their souls are with God in glory.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MOUSE'S LULLABY by PALMER COX HERMAN; OR, THE BROKEN SPEAR by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM TO HIS DEAR FRIEND MR. JOHN EMELY by WILLIAM BOSWORTH TWO SKETCHES: 1. H.B. by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING OLD AND NEW; THE CENTURY ASSOCIATION, 1847-1897 by WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER |