Where silent elms are clustering round
That grey church-tower, which peers above,
She sleeps beneath the narrow mound,
Whom I had loved with brother's love.
The sun, o'er yonder wooded height
Slow-drawing on his evening streak,
Had glanced a ray of rosy light
Athwart her pale and dying cheek;
And while that glorious orb of his
Yet hung—departing—in the west,
Amid a kindred scene like this
Her noble spirit sank to rest.
But, ever since, this westering light,
These purpled hills, that flaming sea,
Those streaks o'er yonder wooded height,
Though beauteous still, are sad to me.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010