Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A WOODLAND GRAVE, by JOHN BYRNE LEICESTER WARREN Poet's Biography First Line: Bring no jarring lute this way Last Line: Doz'd with woodland lullabies. Alternate Author Name(s): Lancaster, William P.; Preston, George F.; De Tabley, 3d Baron; De Tabley, Lord Subject(s): Forests; Graves; Woods; Tombs; Tombstones | ||||||||
BRING no jarring lute this way To demean her sepulchre, Toys of love and idle day Vanish as we think of her. We, who read her epitaph, Find the world not worth a laugh. Light, our light, what dusty night Numbs the golden drowsy head? Lo! empath'd in pearls of light, Morn resurgent from the dead; From whose amber shoulders flow Shroud and sheet of cloudy woe. Woods are dreaming, and she dreams: Through the foliaged roof above Down immeasurably streams Splendor like an angel's love, Till the tomb and gleaming urn In a mist of glory burn. Cedars there in outspread palls Lean their rigid canopies; Yet a lark note through them falls, As he scales his orient skies. That aerial song of his, Sweet, might come from thee in bliss. There the roses pine and weep Strong, delicious human tears; There the posies o'er her sleep Through the years -- ah! through the years: Spring on spring renew the show Of their frail memorial woe. Wreaths of intertwisted yew Lay for cypress where she lies, Mingle perfume from the blue Of the forest violet's eyes. Let the squirrel sleek its fur, And the primrose peep at her. We have seen three winters sow Hoarfrost on thy winding-sheet: Snows return again, and thou Hearest not the crisping sleet. Winds arise and winds depart, Yet no tempest rocks thy heart. We have seen with fiery tongue Thrice the infant crocus born: Thrice its trembling curtain hung In a chink of frozen morn. This can rear its silken crest: Nothing thaws her ice-bound breast. We have eaten, we have earn'd Wine of grief and bread of care, We, who saw her first inurn'd In the dust and silence there. We have wept -- ah God! not so: Trivial tears dried long ago. But we yearn and make our moan For the step we us'd to know: Gentle hand and tender tone, Laughter in a silver flow: All that sweetness in thy chain, Tyrant Grave, restore again. Bring again the maid who died: We have wither'd since she went. O unseal the shadowy side Of her marble monument; Earth, disclose her as she lies Doz'd with woodland lullabies. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SURVIVOR AMONG GRAVES by RANDALL JARRELL SUBJECTED EARTH by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE GRAVE OF MRS. HEMANS by CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER THOSE GRAVES IN ROME by LARRY LEVIS NOT TO BE DWELLED ON by HEATHER MCHUGH ONE LAST DRAW OF THE PIPE by PAUL MULDOON ETRUSCAN TOMB by JOHN FREDERICK NIMS ENDING WITH A LINE FROM LEAR by MARVIN BELL NUPTIAL SONG by JOHN BYRNE LEICESTER WARREN |
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