WHISPER with bated breath, As in a room of Death, For Joy is dead! Roused from Love's broken trance, Vex her with no rude glance; Let gentle Time and Chance Soft balsam shed! Hers be the freshening shower That steeps the fallen flower, Bidding it rise. Hers be the herald gleam Of rays ere long to stream O'er a sad wintry dream Of sunless skies. Hers be the healing boon Mantling a ruin soon In robe of green; Letting no scar or breach Frown out of Beauty's reach; Blending the ill of each With the fair scene. Hers be the best of arts, That rejoins riven parts, Leaving twain one -- Nature's kind skill that mends Whate'er rude Fortune rends: Many a tale thus ends, Sadly begun. Hers (crowning balm) be Love Bright as yon Dome above, Pure, calm, and true; Then, for low whisper, Mirth, Meet, not for Death but Birth; If Love regild her Earth Joy lives anew. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MARMOZET by HILAIRE BELLOC THE WORLD AS WILL AND REPRESENTATION' by HAYDEN CARRUTH IT JUST SO HAPPENS by JAMES GALVIN SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: JOHN WASSON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS FLEMING HELPHENSTINE by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |