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to annie.
To Annie.
WRITTEN ON A GRAVESTONE IN LANCASTER CEMETERY, 1878.
I'm kneeling by your grave, Annie,
This sweet September morn,
Weaving a kind of grave romance,
From your tombstone old and worn.
This sweet September morn,
Weaving a kind of grave romance,
From your tombstone old and worn.
You were very young to die, Annie,
But you yourself know best;—
Perhaps your life was wearisome,
And death has brought you rest.
But you yourself know best;—
Perhaps your life was wearisome,
And death has brought you rest.
The sun is shining warmly, Annie,
Here where you lie beneath,
And the beauty of your resting place
Makes me in love with death.
Here where you lie beneath,
And the beauty of your resting place
Makes me in love with death.
I should like to know about you, Annie,
All about your earthly life,
And I wonder as I kneel here
If you ever were a wife.
All about your earthly life,
And I wonder as I kneel here
If you ever were a wife.
I wonder if you were, Annie,
Or if you lived alone,
For your name looks, oh, so solitary,
By itself upon the stone.
Or if you lived alone,
For your name looks, oh, so solitary,
By itself upon the stone.
