- Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day,
- Sat where a river roiled away,
- With calm, and brows and raven hair,
- And one was pale and both were fair.
- "Bring Flowers," they sang, "bring flowers unblown,"
- Bring forest blooms of name unknown,
- Bring budding sprays from wood and wild,
- To strew the bier of Love, the child.
- Close softly, fondly, while we weep,
- His eyes, that death may seem like sleep,
- And fold his hands in sign of rest,
- His waxen hands, across his breast,
- And mask his grave where violets hide,
- Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side,
- And blue birds, in the misty spring
- Of cloudless skies and summer, sing.
- Place near him, as ye lay him low,
- His idle shaft, his loosen bow,
- The silken fillet that around
- His waggish eye, in sport, he wound.
- The bow, the band shall fall to dust,
- The shining arrow waste to rust,
- And all of love, that earth can claim,
- Be but a memory and a name.
- Not this, his nobler part shall dwell,
- A prisoner in the narrow cell,
- But he whom now we hide from men,
- In the dark ground, shall live again.
- Shall break these clods, a form of light,
- With nobler mien, and purer sight,
- And, in the eternal glory, stand,
- Highest and nearest God's right hand.
History and Legacy of Wild Birds Including Historic Ornithology and Other Topics of Interest
06 November 2013
The Burial of Love - An 1859 Poem
Labels:
poetry