TO THE MEMORY OF F. H. PEARSE. WHO DIED JULY 19, 1896.
Not wintry blasts have seared the leaf;
Nor winter snows, pearling the shroud
With more of gladness than of grief,—
The silver lining of the sunset cloud—
Have wrapt thee in thy winding sheet.
No!—graves have tales more sad and sweet.
Nor winter snows, pearling the shroud
With more of gladness than of grief,—
The silver lining of the sunset cloud—
Have wrapt thee in thy winding sheet.
No!—graves have tales more sad and sweet.
Not autumn winds have sighed their strains
Of melody; nor autumn tears,
Dripping alternate joys and pains,
Have mellowed thy young life to riper years.
No! the strung chords had scarcely gushed
Their prelude bursts than snapt, and hushed.
Of melody; nor autumn tears,
Dripping alternate joys and pains,
Have mellowed thy young life to riper years.
No! the strung chords had scarcely gushed
Their prelude bursts than snapt, and hushed.
The red rose blooms by hedge and lea,
Vieing its kin in fair repute;
And apple-blossoms, droopingly,
Whiten to paleness on the verge of fruit;
Nor pass the sequent path of spring—
The ripening through the blossoming.
Vieing its kin in fair repute;
And apple-blossoms, droopingly,
Whiten to paleness on the verge of fruit;
Nor pass the sequent path of spring—
The ripening through the blossoming.
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