100
AMONG THE PINES.
Like Druid priests, dark-vestured, slim,
Burdened with mysteries,
They wake throughout their green aisles dim
Weird melodies.
Rhythmic within their swaying limbs
The prisoned music swells,
Far cadence of cathedral hymns
And calling bells.
The infinite loneliness of night,
Bereft of joy or pain,
And passion of long-lost delight
Ebb in the strain.
The wash of low, monotonous waves
On shores unvisited,
The grasses whispering on graves
Where hearts have bled,
