Things are so changed since last we met: Come; I will show you where she lies. Doubtless the old look fills her eyes, And the old patient smile is set Upon her mouth: it was even so When last I saw her stretched and still, So pale and calm I could not weep: The steady sweetness did not go Thro' the long week she lay asleep, Until the dust was heaped on her. Now many-feathered grasses grow Above her bosom: come; I will Show you all this, and we can talk Going; it is a pleasant walk And the wind makes it pleasanter. This is the very path that she So often trod with eager feet Tho' weary. The dusk branches meet Above, making green fretted work, The screen between my saint and me. There, where the softest sunbeams lurk, Cannot you fancy she may be Leaning down to me from her rest; And shaking her long golden hair Thro' the thick branches to my face, That I may feel she still is mine? -- Is not this wood a pleasant place? To me the faintest breath of air Seems here to whisper tenderly That she, mine own, will not forget. It may be selfishness; and yet I like to think her joy may not Be perfected, although divine In all the glory of the blest, Without me: that the greenest spot And shadiest, would not suffice, Without me, even in Paradise. But we must leave the wood to go Across the sunny fields of wheat; I used to fancy that the grass And daisies loved to touch her feet. This was the way we used to pass Together; rain nor wind nor snow Could hinder her, until her strength Failed utterly; and when at length She was too weak, they put her bed Close to the window; there she lay Counting the Church chimes one by one For many weeks: at last a day Came when her patient watch was done, And some one told me she was dead. Now we can see the Church tower; look, Where the old flaky yew trees stand. There is a certain shady nook Among them, where she used to sit When weary: I have held her hand So often there: one day she said That sometimes, when we sat so, she Could fancy what being dead must be, And long for it if shared by me: -- She had no cause for dreading it, And never once conceived my dread. This path leads to the Western door Where the sun casts his latest beam, And hard beside it is her grave. I sowed those grasses there that wave Like down, but would sow nothing more, No flowers, as if her resting place Could want for sweetness; where she is Is sweetest of all sweetnesses. If you look closely, you can trace A Cross formed by the grass, above Her head: and sometimes I could dream She sees the Cross, and feels the love That planted it; and prays that I May come and share her hidden rest; May even lie where she doth lie, With the same turf above my breast, And the same stars and silent sky. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. PURKAPILE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE SPARROW HARK IN THE RAIN (ALEXANDER STEPHENS HEARS NEWS) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS LIMBO by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE TO HIS MISTRESS by ABRAHAM COWLEY THE FORCE OF LOVE by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES MY AIN COUNTRIE by MARY LEE DEMAREST |