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Thw Wind over the Chimney.
39
"Dust are all the hands that wrought;
Books are sepulchres of thought;
The dead laurels of the dead
Rustle for a moment only,
Like the withered leaves in lonely
Churchyards at some passing tread."
Books are sepulchres of thought;
The dead laurels of the dead
Rustle for a moment only,
Like the withered leaves in lonely
Churchyards at some passing tread."
Suddenly the flame sinks down;
Sink the rumors of renown;
And alone the night-wind drear
Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,—
"'T is the brand of Meleager
Dying on the hearth-stone here!"
Sink the rumors of renown;
And alone the night-wind drear
Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,—
"'T is the brand of Meleager
Dying on the hearth-stone here!"
