O'ERHANGING trees cast shadows on her brow, That form the semblance of a funeral wreath, And on her cheek the streaming moonbeams show The beauty and the ghastliness of deaths So floats she on the cold pale stars beneath, That only at their imaged glittering gaze, Heeding not her; and the night-breeze's breath Sports with the rippling waves amid the maze Of chestnut hair, her pride in long forgotten days. So the cold river bears her to the sea, For ever from her quiet haunts away, And the bowed, melancholy willow-tree, That oft has hid her weeping, bends its spray, And kissing her seems wooing her to stay,-- No, onward! they who loved her shall not know How fair she was in death; they shall not pray Beside her corse; and is this greater woe? So would she have it, and 'tis best it should be so. Yes, let the great deep chaunt the requiem hymn; Man may not, since that cankering grief within Had made God-given inward sight grow dim, Gazing too sadly long, and it was sin The rest she sought, we dare not say did win; Her soul, too leaning grown for anguish lone, Set to soft music, could not bear the din Of the world's turmoil, when the voice was gone That made all melody, till Earth held but that one: Held only that for her, and when it went, There seemed no joy upon sad Earth for her; Her days were long with heavy discontent, No might of comfort in her soul could stir, Save in the thought that, since he could not err, His heaven-sworn faith should never be distraught, Never his heart from her be wanderer, And she had rest in that one happy thought, From the lone misery wherewith her days were fraught. She had no word of anger or of blame For him whose weakness wrought her so much woe, But, since not of his will their parting came, Held him all guiltless, triumphing to know His heart still hers; till came that bitter blow That he was comforted and she was lone; Never again the icebound tears could flow, Her aching heart seemed crusted with chill stone, The sunlight of her life for evermore had gone. And all the purpose of her days seemed done, When that last gleam of hope had died away, Love had grown life, till life and love were one. Now chaos seemed the earth, twilight the day, And Hope stood too far off to bid her pray; Ah! wild, weak heart! Yet judge her pityingly, Knowing the grief that led her so astray; It was not death, it was but rest to die, To rest upon the waves that sing as she floats by:-- "She has come to us to rest; Hush, she is asleep, Sleeps gently on our breast-- Wake her not, she will weep. "We have seen her, lone and drear, Weep the twilight long, Saw her, and we thought to cheer, Murmuring our song. "Showed her the pale sparkling star, Glittering in our tide, Her own beauty fairer far-- Wearily she sighed. "Laid at her feet long moonbeams, Bright as o'er her head-- Circled by the silver gleams, Bitter tears she shed. "Then we caught them in our waves, Bore them to the deep, She will find them in its caves-- Wake her not, she will weep. "We will bear her carefully In her happy sleep, We will hide her from man's eye, Hide her in the deep." Thus sang the stream, as though it did rejoice That in that rigid calm, so still and pale, The weary one had rest; and the low voice Of sad winds sighing down the quiet vale, Swept through the boughs in mournful cadenced wail, And answered the light wavelets in long sighs; The night-owl shrieked from a green broken rail, Peering at her with earnest wistful eyes-- And she passed on beneath the quiet moonlight skies. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING FOR EUROPE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE RAGGED WOOD by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS OPEN THY HEART by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS LIFE AND DEATH by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE |