The laurel grows upon the hill That looks across the western sea.
O winds, within the boughs be still; O sun, shine tenderly;
And bird, sing soft about your nest: I twine a wreath for other lands—
A grave!—nor wife nor child hath blest With touch of loving hands
Where eyes are closed divine and young, Dusked in a night no morn may break; And stilled the poet-lips that sung, In sleep no touch may wake;
While falls the venomed arrow - thrust, And lips that hate hiss foul disgrace
And the sad heart is dust, and dust The beautiful, sad face!
For him I pluck the laurel crown: It ripened in the western breeze, Where hills throw giant shadows down Upon the golden seas;
And sunlight lingered in its leaves From dawn to darkness—till the sky Grew white with sudden stars; and waves Sang to it constantly.
{ weave, and strive to weave a tone,
A touch—that, somehow, when it lies Upon his sacred dust, alone,
Beneath the English skies,
The sunlight of the arch it knew, The calm that wrapt its native hill, The love that wreathed its glossy hue, May breathe around it still!
