AT AN OLD GRAVE.
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And soon deciphered, it stood sole sign For fifty-three long-forgotten years,Lonely and childless and sad, perhaps, Of outward grace and comfort shorn.And the day with its wide, indifferent shine It has learned to know, and the night's chill tears;And round it the train's wild echo flaps With screaming speed for the eager morn.
Beneath the seasons' heavy hand The sunken slate leaned down the grave,While Mays to Aprils have swiftly wheeled, And slow Arcturus has reddened the snow;And it sucked the gloom from the sky and land To that spot where the scanty grasses wave,Into the heart of its sombre shield, Till the earth spread laughing and bright below.
For over the slope and far away, Bathed in the beautiful light of day,Dimpled with shadows of floating cloud, And blue in the distant summer still,
