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." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A LOVER'S QUARREL by ROBERT BROWNING THE SPARROW by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE CONVERGENCE OF THE TWAIN; LINES ON LOSS OF THE TITANIC by THOMAS HARDY PSALM OF THOSE WHO GO FORTH BEFORE DAYLIGHT by CARL SANDBURG TO A SHADE by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ECHOES OF SPRING: 5 by MATHILDE BLIND FO'C'S'LE YARNS: 3D SERIES: PRELUDE by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |