My Anna! when for thee my head was bowed, The circle of the world, sky, mountain, main, Drew inward to one spot: and now again Wide Nature narrows to the shell and shroud. In the late dawn they will not be forgot, And evenings early-dark, when the low rain Begins at nightfall, though no tempests rave, I know the rain is falling on her grave. The morning views it, and the sunset cloud Points with a finger to that lonely spot: The crops that up the valley rolling go Ever towards her slumber bow and blow. I look on the sweeping corn and the surging rye, And with every gust of wind my heart goes by. |