Frances Anne Kemble Poems

Farewell, old playmate! on thy sandy shore
My lingering feet will leave their print no more;
To thy loved side I never may return.
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Come down! from where the everlasting hills
Open their rocky gates to let thee pass,
Child of a thousand rapid running rills,
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Say thou not sadly, 'never,' and 'no more,'
But from thy lips banish those falsest words;
While life remains that which was thine before
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Though thou return unto the former things,
Fields, woods, and gardens, where thy feet have strayed
In other days, and not a bough, branch, blade
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'Twas but a dream! and oh! what are they all,
All the fond visions hope's bright finger traces,
All the fond visions time's dark wing effaces,
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When in the wintry woods you hear the note
Of some small robin piping his delight
Because the noonday sunshine warm and bright
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Before my senses or my soul awake,
Sorrow begins to stir within my heart;
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If from the height of that celestial sphere
Where now thou dwell'st, spirit powerful and sweet!
Thou yet canst love the race that sojourn here,
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O hearts of flesh! O beating hearts of love!
O twining hands of human dear desire!—
How, when your glorious mate begins to move,
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We are the ghosts of those small flowers,
That in the opening of the year,
'Neath rosemary and myrtle bowers,
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