140
AT AN OLD GRAVE.
The level fields of the champaign lay, Golden and brown from new-mown hay;And behind some lofty and lucid shroud The slant sun rained on a lifted hill.
So when I saw it first, and so, Had the burial mount refined to glass,And Ruth forsaken her sleep to look, She had seen the country lapped in June,While the loud bee hummed in the clover blow, And, far from the idle feet that pass,Like the rustle of any limpid brook, The throstle fluted his broken tune.
Did the skies let down upon Ruth's birthnight Larger and lower their throbbing stars;The river, brimming his banks, flow clear, And low winds ripple a silken stir?Did a meteor thrust its veils of light, And kingly essences burst their bars,All for the love of the new life here, And the possibilities born with her?
