There is a spirit in these ancient stones, These grassy mounds and immemorial trees That scarce seem conscious of the passing breeze, So deep they brood above the sleeping bones Of happy mortals eased of toilsome breath, A Power not alien to this gentle vale, Not alien to this quiet folk that fail In no observance due to life or death, The spirit and the power of lives that pass, Their labours ended, and their laughter fled, To mingle with the dust their hands have tilled, To take their rest beneath the silent grass Their fathers planted, and their sons shall tread, The measure of man's destiny fulfilled. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ANTONIO by LAURA ELIZABETH HOWE RICHARDS RUMORS FROM AN AEOLIAN HARP by HENRY DAVID THOREAU THE CLOUDS: SOCRATES' EXPERIMENTS by ARISTOPHANES EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON by MATTHEW ARNOLD |