Poems (Eckley)/A Whisper
HE very air breathes mystery—cloud, plainAre silent; and funereal shadows creep,To tremble under cypresses that reignIn solemn state upon the rocky steep.The silver shower of the fountain fallsWithin St. Peter's square; th' impressive space—Though grand, mysterious—is dead, and pallsUpon the senses like a buried face,We once have loved, and pray'd we might forget.The Colosseum too is desolate,Though her green draperies with show'rs are wet—With tears of Heaven. Mark the sunbeams meetTo gild the ruined outlines, that the gloomMay not again remind us of that tomb.
A WHISPER.
HE very air breathes mystery—cloud, plainAre silent; and funereal shadows creep,To tremble under cypresses that reignIn solemn state upon the rocky steep.The silver shower of the fountain fallsWithin St. Peter's square; th' impressive space—Though grand, mysterious—is dead, and pallsUpon the senses like a buried face,We once have loved, and pray'd we might forget.The Colosseum too is desolate,Though her green draperies with show'rs are wet—With tears of Heaven. Mark the sunbeams meetTo gild the ruined outlines, that the gloomMay not again remind us of that tomb.