ALTYN
53
God's Acre, a weary weathered shingle leaning
Upon the wind, and deeply carved by hands
Palsied with fever: Effie Golden—gone.
Oh, nothing remains, nothing remains of Altyn,
Where never the eye of any man had known
The glint and tremble of a gentle tear;
Where never the stony furrows of a heart
Had yielded up the flower of compassion.
Upon the wind, and deeply carved by hands
Palsied with fever: Effie Golden—gone.
Oh, nothing remains, nothing remains of Altyn,
Where never the eye of any man had known
The glint and tremble of a gentle tear;
Where never the stony furrows of a heart
Had yielded up the flower of compassion.
