Poems (Cary)/Annuaries
ANNUARIES.
I.
A year has gone down silently
To the dark quiet of the Past,
Since I beneath this very tree
Sat hoping, fearing, dreaming, last;
Its waning glories, like a flame,
Are trembling to the wind's light touch—
All just a year ago the same,
And I—oh! I—am changed so much!
To the dark quiet of the Past,
Since I beneath this very tree
Sat hoping, fearing, dreaming, last;
Its waning glories, like a flame,
Are trembling to the wind's light touch—
All just a year ago the same,
And I—oh! I—am changed so much!
The beauty of a wildering dream
Hung softly round declining day;
A star of all too sweet a beam
In Eve's flushed bosom trembling lay;
Changed in its aspect, yet the same,
Still climbs that star from sunset's glow,
But its embrace of beauteous flame
No longer clasps the world from wo.
Hung softly round declining day;
A star of all too sweet a beam
In Eve's flushed bosom trembling lay;
Changed in its aspect, yet the same,
Still climbs that star from sunset's glow,
But its embrace of beauteous flame
No longer clasps the world from wo.
Another year shall I return,
And cross this solemn chapel floor,
While round me memory's shrine-lamps burn—
Or shall this pilgrimage be o'er?
One that I loved, grown faint with strife,
When drooped and died the tenderer bloom,
Folded the white tent of young life
For the pale army of the tomb.
And cross this solemn chapel floor,
While round me memory's shrine-lamps burn—
Or shall this pilgrimage be o'er?
One that I loved, grown faint with strife,
When drooped and died the tenderer bloom,
Folded the white tent of young life
For the pale army of the tomb.
The dry seeds dropping from their pods,
The hawthorn apples bright as dawn,
And the grey mullen's starless rods,
Were just as now a year agone;
But changed is everything to me,
From the small flower to sunset's glow,
Since last I sat beneath this tree,
A year—a little year—ago.
The hawthorn apples bright as dawn,
And the grey mullen's starless rods,
Were just as now a year agone;
But changed is everything to me,
From the small flower to sunset's glow,
Since last I sat beneath this tree,
A year—a little year—ago.
I leaned against this broken bough,
This faded turf my footstep pressed;
But glad hopes that are not there now,
Lay softly trembling in my breast—
Trembling, for though the golden haze,
Rose, as the dead leaves drifted by,
As from the Vala of old days,
The mournful voice of prophecy.
This faded turf my footstep pressed;
But glad hopes that are not there now,
Lay softly trembling in my breast—
Trembling, for though the golden haze,
Rose, as the dead leaves drifted by,
As from the Vala of old days,
The mournful voice of prophecy.
Give woman's heart one triumph hour.
Even on the borders of the grave,
And thou hast given her strength and power
The saddest ills of life to brave;
Crush that far hope down, thou dost bring
To the poor bird the tempest's wrath,
Without the petrel's stormy wing
To beat the darkness from its path.
Even on the borders of the grave,
And thou hast given her strength and power
The saddest ills of life to brave;
Crush that far hope down, thou dost bring
To the poor bird the tempest's wrath,
Without the petrel's stormy wing
To beat the darkness from its path.
Once knowing mortal hope and fear,
Whate'er in heaven's sweet clime thou art,
Bend, pitying mother, softly near,
And save, O save me from my heart!
Be still, oh mournful memory,
My knee is trembling on the sod—
The heir of immortality,
A child of the eternal God.
Whate'er in heaven's sweet clime thou art,
Bend, pitying mother, softly near,
And save, O save me from my heart!
Be still, oh mournful memory,
My knee is trembling on the sod—
The heir of immortality,
A child of the eternal God.
II.
When last year took her mournful flight,
With all her train of wo and ill,
As pale processions sweep at night
Across some lonesome burial hill—
My soul with sorrow for its mate,
And bowed with unrequited wrong,
Stood knocking at the starry gate
Of the wild wondrous realm of song.
With all her train of wo and ill,
As pale processions sweep at night
Across some lonesome burial hill—
My soul with sorrow for its mate,
And bowed with unrequited wrong,
Stood knocking at the starry gate
Of the wild wondrous realm of song.
Hope from my noon of life was gone,
With all the sheltering peace it gave,
And a dim twilight stealing on,
Foretold the night-time of the grave.
Past is that time of wild unrest,
Hope reillumes its faded track,
And the soft hand of love has prest
Death's deep and awful shadows back.
With all the sheltering peace it gave,
And a dim twilight stealing on,
Foretold the night-time of the grave.
Past is that time of wild unrest,
Hope reillumes its faded track,
And the soft hand of love has prest
Death's deep and awful shadows back.
A year agone, when wildly shrill
The wind sat singing on this bough,
The churchyard on the neighboring hill
Had not so many graves as now.
Yet am I spared—God knoweth why,
And by the hand of Fancy led,
The same as in the years gone by,
Musing this idle rhyme I tread.
The wind sat singing on this bough,
The churchyard on the neighboring hill
Had not so many graves as now.
Yet am I spared—God knoweth why,
And by the hand of Fancy led,
The same as in the years gone by,
Musing this idle rhyme I tread.
When the May-morn, with hand of light,
The clouds about her bosom drew,
And o'er the blue, cold steeps of night
Went treading out the stars like dew—
One, whose dear joy it had been ours
Two little summer times to keep,
Folded his white hands from the flowers,
And, softly smiling, fell asleep.
The clouds about her bosom drew,
And o'er the blue, cold steeps of night
Went treading out the stars like dew—
One, whose dear joy it had been ours
Two little summer times to keep,
Folded his white hands from the flowers,
And, softly smiling, fell asleep.
And when the northern light streamed cold
Across October's moaning blast,
One whose brief tarrying was foretold
All the sweet summer that was past,
Meekly unlocked from her young arms
The scarcely faded bridal crown,
And in death's fearful night of storms
The dim day of her life went down.
Across October's moaning blast,
One whose brief tarrying was foretold
All the sweet summer that was past,
Meekly unlocked from her young arms
The scarcely faded bridal crown,
And in death's fearful night of storms
The dim day of her life went down.
Above yon reach of level mist
Bright shines the cross-crowned spire afar,
As in the sky's clear amethyst
The splendor of some steadfast star;
And still beneath its steady light
The waves of time heave to and fro,
From night to day, from day to night,
As the dim seasons come and go.
Bright shines the cross-crowned spire afar,
As in the sky's clear amethyst
The splendor of some steadfast star;
And still beneath its steady light
The waves of time heave to and fro,
From night to day, from day to night,
As the dim seasons come and go.
Some eager for ambition's strife,
Some to love's banquet hurrying on,
Like pilgrims on the hills of life
We cross each other, and are gone;
But though our lives are little drops,
Welled from the infinite fount above,
Our deaths are but the mystic stops
In the great melody of love.
Some to love's banquet hurrying on,
Like pilgrims on the hills of life
We cross each other, and are gone;
But though our lives are little drops,
Welled from the infinite fount above,
Our deaths are but the mystic stops
In the great melody of love.
III.
Vailing the basement of the skies
October's mists hang dull and red,
And with each wild gust's fall and rise,
The yellow leaves are round me spread;
'Tis the third autumn, aye, so long!
Since memory 'neath this very bough,
Thrilled my sad lyre strings into song—
What shall unlock their music now?
October's mists hang dull and red,
And with each wild gust's fall and rise,
The yellow leaves are round me spread;
'Tis the third autumn, aye, so long!
Since memory 'neath this very bough,
Thrilled my sad lyre strings into song—
What shall unlock their music now?
Then sang I of a sweet hope changed,
Of pale hands beckoning, glad health fled,
Of hearts grown careless or estranged,
Of friends, or living, lost, or dead.
O living lost, forever lost,
Your light still lingers, faint and far,
As if an awful shadow crossed
The bright disk of the morning star.
Of pale hands beckoning, glad health fled,
Of hearts grown careless or estranged,
Of friends, or living, lost, or dead.
O living lost, forever lost,
Your light still lingers, faint and far,
As if an awful shadow crossed
The bright disk of the morning star.
Blow, autumn, in thy wildest wrath,
Down from the northern woodlands, blow!
Drift the last wild-flowers from my path—
What care I for the summer now!
Yet shrink I, trembling and afraid
From searching glances inward thrown;
What deep foundation have I laid,
For any joyance not my own?
Down from the northern woodlands, blow!
Drift the last wild-flowers from my path—
What care I for the summer now!
Yet shrink I, trembling and afraid
From searching glances inward thrown;
What deep foundation have I laid,
For any joyance not my own?
While with my poor, unskilful hands,
Half hopeful, half in vague alarm,
Building up walls of shining sands
That fell and faded with the storm,
E'en now my bosom shakes with fear,
Like the last leaflets of this bough,
For through the silence I can hear,
"Unprofitable servant, thou!"
Half hopeful, half in vague alarm,
Building up walls of shining sands
That fell and faded with the storm,
E'en now my bosom shakes with fear,
Like the last leaflets of this bough,
For through the silence I can hear,
"Unprofitable servant, thou!"
Yet have there been, there are to-day
In spite of health, or hope's decline,
Fountains of beauty sealed away
From every mortal eye but mine;
Even dreams have filled my soul with light,
And on my way their splendor left,
As if the darkness of the night
Were by some planet's rising cleft.
In spite of health, or hope's decline,
Fountains of beauty sealed away
From every mortal eye but mine;
Even dreams have filled my soul with light,
And on my way their splendor left,
As if the darkness of the night
Were by some planet's rising cleft.
And peace hath in my heart been born,
That shut from memory all life's ills,
In walking with the blue-eyed morn
Among the white mists of the hills.
And joyous, I have heard the wails
That heave the wild woods to and fro,
When autumn's crown of crimson pales
Beneath the winter's hand of snow.
That shut from memory all life's ills,
In walking with the blue-eyed morn
Among the white mists of the hills.
And joyous, I have heard the wails
That heave the wild woods to and fro,
When autumn's crown of crimson pales
Beneath the winter's hand of snow.
Once, leaving all its lovely mates,
On yonder lightning-withered tree,
That vainly for the springtime waits,
A wild bird perched and sang for me;
And listening to the clear sweet strain
That came like sunshine o'er the day,
My forehead's hot and burning pain
Fell like a crown of thorns away.
On yonder lightning-withered tree,
That vainly for the springtime waits,
A wild bird perched and sang for me;
And listening to the clear sweet strain
That came like sunshine o'er the day,
My forehead's hot and burning pain
Fell like a crown of thorns away.
But shadows from the western height
Are stretching to the valley low,
For through the cloudy gates of night
The day is passing, solemn, slow,
While o'er yon blue and rocky steep
The moon, half hidden in the mist,
Waits for the loving wind to keep
The promise of the twilight tryst.
Are stretching to the valley low,
For through the cloudy gates of night
The day is passing, solemn, slow,
While o'er yon blue and rocky steep
The moon, half hidden in the mist,
Waits for the loving wind to keep
The promise of the twilight tryst.
Come thou, whose meek blue eyes divine,
What thou, and only thou canst see,
I wait to put my hand in thine—
What answer sendest thou to me?
Ah! thoughts of one whom helpless blight
Had pushed from all fair hope apart,
Making it thenceforth hers to fight
The stormy battles of the heart.
What thou, and only thou canst see,
I wait to put my hand in thine—
What answer sendest thou to me?
Ah! thoughts of one whom helpless blight
Had pushed from all fair hope apart,
Making it thenceforth hers to fight
The stormy battles of the heart.
Well, I have no complaint of wrath,
And no reproaches for my doom;
Spring cannot blossom in thy path
So bright as I would have it bloom.
And no reproaches for my doom;
Spring cannot blossom in thy path
So bright as I would have it bloom.
IV.
Oh, sorrowful and faded years,
Gathered away a time ago,
How could your deaths the fount of tears
Have troubled to an overflow?
I muse upon the songs I made
Beneath the maple's yellow limbs,
When down the aisles of thin cold shade
Sounded the wild bird's farewell hymns
Gathered away a time ago,
How could your deaths the fount of tears
Have troubled to an overflow?
I muse upon the songs I made
Beneath the maple's yellow limbs,
When down the aisles of thin cold shade
Sounded the wild bird's farewell hymns
But no sad spell my spirit binds
As when, in days on which it broods,
October hunted with the winds
Along the reddening sunset woods.
Alas, the seasons come and go,
Brightly or dimly rise and set
The days, but stir no fount of wo,
Nor kindle hope, nor wake regret.
As when, in days on which it broods,
October hunted with the winds
Along the reddening sunset woods.
Alas, the seasons come and go,
Brightly or dimly rise and set
The days, but stir no fount of wo,
Nor kindle hope, nor wake regret.
I sit with the complaining night,
And underneath the waning moon,
As when the lilies large and white
Lay round the forehead of the June.
What time within a snowy grave
Closed the blue eyes so heavenly dear,
Darkness swept o'er me like a wave,
And time has nothing that I fear.
And underneath the waning moon,
As when the lilies large and white
Lay round the forehead of the June.
What time within a snowy grave
Closed the blue eyes so heavenly dear,
Darkness swept o'er me like a wave,
And time has nothing that I fear.
The golden wings of summer's hours
Make to my heart a dirge-like sound,
The spring's sweet boughs of bridal flowers
Lie bright across a smooth-heaped mound.
What care I that I sing to-day
Where sound not the old plaintive hymns,
And where the mountains hide away
The sunset maple's yellow limbs?
Make to my heart a dirge-like sound,
The spring's sweet boughs of bridal flowers
Lie bright across a smooth-heaped mound.
What care I that I sing to-day
Where sound not the old plaintive hymns,
And where the mountains hide away
The sunset maple's yellow limbs?
V.
On the brown, flowerless meadow lies
The wraith of summer; oat flowers bright
Nod heavy on her death-blind eyes,
Smiling with melancholy light.
And Autumn, with his eyelids red
Drooped to her beauty, sits to-day,
His sad heart sweetly comforted
By storms upon their starless way.
The wraith of summer; oat flowers bright
Nod heavy on her death-blind eyes,
Smiling with melancholy light.
And Autumn, with his eyelids red
Drooped to her beauty, sits to-day,
His sad heart sweetly comforted
By storms upon their starless way.
Seasons continuous, mingling, thrill
Our souls, as notes that sweetly blend,
Until we cannot, if we will,
Tell where they or begin or end.
And while the blue fly sings so well,
And while the cricket chirps so low;
In the bright grass, I scarce can tell
If there be daisy-flakes, or snow.
Our souls, as notes that sweetly blend,
Until we cannot, if we will,
Tell where they or begin or end.
And while the blue fly sings so well,
And while the cricket chirps so low;
In the bright grass, I scarce can tell
If there be daisy-flakes, or snow.
But when along the slumberous blue,
And dreamy, quiet atmosphere,
I look to find the April dew,
I know the Autumn time is here.
The lampless hollow of the skies
Is full of mists, or blank, or dun;
Where all day, soft and warm, there lies
A shadow that should be the sun.
And dreamy, quiet atmosphere,
I look to find the April dew,
I know the Autumn time is here.
The lampless hollow of the skies
Is full of mists, or blank, or dun;
Where all day, soft and warm, there lies
A shadow that should be the sun.
The winds go noiseless on their way,
Scarcely the lightest twig is stirred;
Not through the wild green boughs of May
Slips the blue lizard so unheard.
Under the woolly mullen, flat
Against the dust, together creep
The shining beetles; and the bat
Is drowsing to his winter sleep.
Scarcely the lightest twig is stirred;
Not through the wild green boughs of May
Slips the blue lizard so unheard.
Under the woolly mullen, flat
Against the dust, together creep
The shining beetles; and the bat
Is drowsing to his winter sleep.
The iron-weeds' red tops are down,
Wilted from all their summer sheen
The fennel's golden buds are brown,
And loneliest in all the scene:
Hither and thither lightly blows
A white cloud o'er the darkening wood,
Like some unpastured lamb that goes
Climbing and wandering for food.
Wilted from all their summer sheen
The fennel's golden buds are brown,
And loneliest in all the scene:
Hither and thither lightly blows
A white cloud o'er the darkening wood,
Like some unpastured lamb that goes
Climbing and wandering for food.
But plenty gladdens all the world,
For corn is ripe, if flowers be o'er;
Autumn, with yellow beard uncurled
In summer's grave-damps, sigh no more!
Sigh no more, Autumn! sigh no more—
For if the blooming boughs have shed
Their pleasant leaves, the light will pour
So much the brighter on thy head.
For corn is ripe, if flowers be o'er;
Autumn, with yellow beard uncurled
In summer's grave-damps, sigh no more!
Sigh no more, Autumn! sigh no more—
For if the blooming boughs have shed
Their pleasant leaves, the light will pour
So much the brighter on thy head.
And while thy mourning voice is staid
I'll play my pipe, so adding on
Another to the rhymes I made
Ere youth, my pretty mate, was gone.
Winds, stirring through the pinetops high,
Or hovering on the ocean's breast,
Blow softly on the ways that lie
Sloping and brightening toward the West.
I'll play my pipe, so adding on
Another to the rhymes I made
Ere youth, my pretty mate, was gone.
Winds, stirring through the pinetops high,
Or hovering on the ocean's breast,
Blow softly on the ways that lie
Sloping and brightening toward the West.
Blow softly, for my thoughts would sweep,
Upon your still and beauteous waves,
Back to the woodlands green and deep,
Back to the firesides and the graves—
The firesides of the rosiest glow,
The graves wherein my kindred rest;
Winds of the Northland, softly blow,
And bear me to the lovely West.
Upon your still and beauteous waves,
Back to the woodlands green and deep,
Back to the firesides and the graves—
The firesides of the rosiest glow,
The graves wherein my kindred rest;
Winds of the Northland, softly blow,
And bear me to the lovely West.
There linger sweetest voices yet,
That ever soothed from grief its pain;
There glow the hills with suns long set,
And there my heart grows young again.
The hope which in the crimson boughs
Shut up her wings dim years away,
Sits with her wan and crownless brows
Leaned on the sodded grave to-day.
That ever soothed from grief its pain;
There glow the hills with suns long set,
And there my heart grows young again.
The hope which in the crimson boughs
Shut up her wings dim years away,
Sits with her wan and crownless brows
Leaned on the sodded grave to-day.
For when the last sweet vision died
She nursed for me, there fell a night
Cloudy and black enough to hide
Her smile's almost eternal light.
When the unkenneled whining winds,
Went last year tracking through the snow,
My heart was comforted with friends
Gone on the last long journey now—
She nursed for me, there fell a night
Cloudy and black enough to hide
Her smile's almost eternal light.
When the unkenneled whining winds,
Went last year tracking through the snow,
My heart was comforted with friends
Gone on the last long journey now—
Who in the middle heavens can view
The noontide sun without a sigh—
A yearning for the faded dew
Where morning's broken splendors lie.
And from the glory up above,
My eyes come down to earth and mark
The pain, the sorrow for lost love—
The awful transit to the dark.
The noontide sun without a sigh—
A yearning for the faded dew
Where morning's broken splendors lie.
And from the glory up above,
My eyes come down to earth and mark
The pain, the sorrow for lost love—
The awful transit to the dark.
Weak and unworthy, still I live,
Harvests and plenteous boughs to see;
My God! how good thou art to give
Such blessings as I have to me.
Oh! add to these all needful grace—
Divide me from that proud disdain,
Climbing against the sunless base
Of an eternity of pain.
Harvests and plenteous boughs to see;
My God! how good thou art to give
Such blessings as I have to me.
Oh! add to these all needful grace—
Divide me from that proud disdain,
Climbing against the sunless base
Of an eternity of pain.
VI.
Once more my annual harp! alas,
'Tis the sixth season nearly run
Since the brown lizard through the grass
Crept slow, and took the autumn sun:
Since the wild maple boughs above
Shook down their leaves of gold and red,
The while I made my song of love—
If there be angels overhead
'Tis the sixth season nearly run
Since the brown lizard through the grass
Crept slow, and took the autumn sun:
Since the wild maple boughs above
Shook down their leaves of gold and red,
The while I made my song of love—
If there be angels overhead
Methinks before their watchful eyes
They well may cross their wings and rest;
What need they guardians in the skies
Who with a human love are blest?
Ah me! what wretched storms of tears
Have made maturer life a dearth,—
For the white visions of young years
Grow dimmer than the common earth?
They well may cross their wings and rest;
What need they guardians in the skies
Who with a human love are blest?
Ah me! what wretched storms of tears
Have made maturer life a dearth,—
For the white visions of young years
Grow dimmer than the common earth?
In vain! the swart October brings,
In its rough arms, no April day—
The ousel plunges its wild wings
But in the rainy brooks of May.
The rose that in the June time rain
Comes open, could not, if it would
Shut up its red-ripe leaves again,
And go back to a blushing bud.
In its rough arms, no April day—
The ousel plunges its wild wings
But in the rainy brooks of May.
The rose that in the June time rain
Comes open, could not, if it would
Shut up its red-ripe leaves again,
And go back to a blushing bud.
And when the step is dull and slow,
And when the eye no longer beams
With the glad hopes of years ago,
What purpose has the heart with dreams?
Away, wild thoughts of sorrow's flood—
Wild dreams of early love, away!
In calm and passionless womanhood,
Why come ye thronging back to-day?
And when the eye no longer beams
With the glad hopes of years ago,
What purpose has the heart with dreams?
Away, wild thoughts of sorrow's flood—
Wild dreams of early love, away!
In calm and passionless womanhood,
Why come ye thronging back to-day?
And you, ye questionings that rise,
Of life and death and hope's surcease,
Seal up again your mockeries—
Peace, peace! I charge you give me peace!
And let me from the pain and gloom
Gather whatever seems like truth,
Forgetful of the opening tomb,
Forgetful of the closing youth.
Of life and death and hope's surcease,
Seal up again your mockeries—
Peace, peace! I charge you give me peace!
And let me from the pain and gloom
Gather whatever seems like truth,
Forgetful of the opening tomb,
Forgetful of the closing youth.
Fain would my thoughts a searching go
For one who left me years away—
Haply the unblest grasses grow
Upon his sweet shut eyes, to-day.
Oft when the evening's mellow gleam
Falls slantwise o'er some western hill,
And like a ponderous, golden beam
Lies rocking—all my heart grows still,
For one who left me years away—
Haply the unblest grasses grow
Upon his sweet shut eyes, to-day.
Oft when the evening's mellow gleam
Falls slantwise o'er some western hill,
And like a ponderous, golden beam
Lies rocking—all my heart grows still,
Listening and listening for the fall
Of his dear step, the cold moon shines
Betimes across the southern hall,
And the black shadows of the vines
O'erblow the mouldy walls, and lie
Heavy along the winding walks—
Where oft we set, in Mays gone by,
Streaked lady-grass and hollyhocks.
Of his dear step, the cold moon shines
Betimes across the southern hall,
And the black shadows of the vines
O'erblow the mouldy walls, and lie
Heavy along the winding walks—
Where oft we set, in Mays gone by,
Streaked lady-grass and hollyhocks.
Within a stone's throw seems the sky
Against the faded woods to bend,
Just as of old the corn-fields lie;
But we, oh, we are changed, my friend!
Since last I saw these maples fade,
The locusts in the burial ground
Have wrapt their melancholy shade
About a new and turfless mound.
Against the faded woods to bend,
Just as of old the corn-fields lie;
But we, oh, we are changed, my friend!
Since last I saw these maples fade,
The locusts in the burial ground
Have wrapt their melancholy shade
About a new and turfless mound.
And one who last year heard with me
The summer's dirges wild and dread,
Has joined the peaceful company
Whom we, the living, mourn as dead.
Turning for solace unto thee,
Oh, Future! from the pleasures gone,
Misshapen earth, through mists I see,
That fancy dare not look upon.
The summer's dirges wild and dread,
Has joined the peaceful company
Whom we, the living, mourn as dead.
Turning for solace unto thee,
Oh, Future! from the pleasures gone,
Misshapen earth, through mists I see,
That fancy dare not look upon.
God of the earth and heaven above,
Hear me in mercy, hear me pray—
Let not one golden stran of love
From my life's skein be shorn away.
Or if, in thy all-wise decree,
The edict be not written so,
Grant, Lord of light! the earnest plea
That I may be the first to go.
Hear me in mercy, hear me pray—
Let not one golden stran of love
From my life's skein be shorn away.
Or if, in thy all-wise decree,
The edict be not written so,
Grant, Lord of light! the earnest plea
That I may be the first to go.
And when the harper of wide space
Shall chant again his mournful hymn,
While on the summer's pale dead face
The leaves are dropping thick and dim—
When songs of robins all are o'er,
And when his work the ant forsakes,
And in the stubbly glebe no more
The grasshopper his pastime takes—
Shall chant again his mournful hymn,
While on the summer's pale dead face
The leaves are dropping thick and dim—
When songs of robins all are o'er,
And when his work the ant forsakes,
And in the stubbly glebe no more
The grasshopper his pastime takes—
What time the gray-roofed barn is full,
The sober smiling harvest done,
And whiter than the late washed wool,
The flax is bleaching in the sun—
The friends who sewed my shroud, sometimes
Shall come about my grave: in tears
Repeating over saddest rhymes
From annuaries of past years.
The sober smiling harvest done,
And whiter than the late washed wool,
The flax is bleaching in the sun—
The friends who sewed my shroud, sometimes
Shall come about my grave: in tears
Repeating over saddest rhymes
From annuaries of past years.