The elm-tree gently stirs its countless leaves,
And over all a benediction breathes
More deep than sleep, more tranquil than the calms
Of some far oasis with breathless palms,—
But hark! upon the air so deep and still
Rude breaks the sound of wheels upon the hill,
The wheels that bear me from this sweet retreat
Back to the city, rife with dust and heat.
And over all a benediction breathes
More deep than sleep, more tranquil than the calms
Of some far oasis with breathless palms,—
But hark! upon the air so deep and still
Rude breaks the sound of wheels upon the hill,
The wheels that bear me from this sweet retreat
Back to the city, rife with dust and heat.
Farewell! farewell! fair haven of my youth,
Thou sweet abode of innocence and truth,
And though my feet may leave thee far behind,
No chance or change shall blot thee from my mind.
And when at eve the city streets are hot
Fond memory shall lead me to this spot,
Then for the din, the rumble and the grind,
Mine ears shall hear the murmur of the wind;
And when at last life's little day is spent
And death shall claim this form, infirm and bent,
I beg some friend to whom I once was dear,
To break the turf and lay the poet here.
Here 'neath the elm where every idle breath
Shall murmur low a requiem for death,
Where first in spring the lilac sheds its bloom
And last in fall the verdure gathers gloom;
That men may know of all the classic ground
Where poets sleep, the leagued world around,
Thou sweet abode of innocence and truth,
And though my feet may leave thee far behind,
No chance or change shall blot thee from my mind.
And when at eve the city streets are hot
Fond memory shall lead me to this spot,
Then for the din, the rumble and the grind,
Mine ears shall hear the murmur of the wind;
And when at last life's little day is spent
And death shall claim this form, infirm and bent,
I beg some friend to whom I once was dear,
To break the turf and lay the poet here.
Here 'neath the elm where every idle breath
Shall murmur low a requiem for death,
Where first in spring the lilac sheds its bloom
And last in fall the verdure gathers gloom;
That men may know of all the classic ground
Where poets sleep, the leagued world around,
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