Poems (Linn)/In the Sandwich Burying-Ground
IN THE SANDWICH BURYING-GROUND.
THE centuries which mark that grass-grown mound
Have left no trace upon the heaving sea;
The sky bends over, while most lovingly
The summer winds caress it to sweet sound,
Or winter's tempests make its waters bound
Like living creatures full of ecstasy,
Leaping and crouching,—ceaseless, changeless, free.
The human heart as limitless, profound,
Is like the sea's incessant ebb and flow
Moving yet constant. Yonder crumbling stone
That marks a grave will be at last laid low.
But do the silent dead forget their own?
Filling the heart, love's full returning tide,
In blessing flows from spirits glorified.
Have left no trace upon the heaving sea;
The sky bends over, while most lovingly
The summer winds caress it to sweet sound,
Or winter's tempests make its waters bound
Like living creatures full of ecstasy,
Leaping and crouching,—ceaseless, changeless, free.
The human heart as limitless, profound,
Is like the sea's incessant ebb and flow
Moving yet constant. Yonder crumbling stone
That marks a grave will be at last laid low.
But do the silent dead forget their own?
Filling the heart, love's full returning tide,
In blessing flows from spirits glorified.