AH, mother! canst thou feel her? . . . spring has come! Birds sing, brooks murmur, woods no more are dumb; And for each grief that vexed thine earthly hour, Nature has kissed thy grave! and lo! . . a flower. Here wails no nightingale against her thorn, But like the incarnate soul of May-flushed morn, The mocking-bird above thy splendor sings, With rapturous throat, and upraised quivering wings; Half drowsed between brief glooms and mellowed gleams, The sun smiles gently, like a god in dreams; His sacred light across thy place of rest, Steals with the softness of a hand that blessed! Thro' magic ministers of spring-tide grace, Thy grave transfigured lifts a radiant face, O'er which elusive golden shadows run, A waft of wind-wrought dimples in the sun; Ah! if thy soul, that loved all beauty here, May yet look earthward from her holier sphere, 'Twill joy to mark, from even those heights august, In what a mantle Nature wraps thy dust. And still the brown bird rears his poethead, And pours his matchless music o'er the dead, 'Till touched and wakened by the marvellous flow, I seem to hear a thrilled heart throb below! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A THUNDERSTORM IN TOWN by THOMAS HARDY LACHRYMAE MUSARUM (THE DEATH OF TENNYSON) by WILLIAM WATSON THE MAGPIES IN PICARDY by T. P. CAMERON WILSON WHITE MOMENTS by KATHARINE LEE BATES PSALM 125 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE |