Poems (Procter)/A Vision

by Adelaide Anne Procter

For works with similar titles, see A Vision.

A VISION.

LOOMY and black are the cypress-trees,
Drearily waileth the chill night breeze.
The long grass waveth, the tombs are white,
And the black clouds flit o'er the chill moonlight,
Silent is all save the dropping rain,
When slowly there cometh a mourning train;
The lone churchyard is dark and dim,
And the mourners raise a funeral hymn.

"Open, dark grave, and take her
 Though we have loved her so,
Yet we must now forsake her,
Love will no more awake her:
  (O bitter woe!)
Open thine arms and take her
  To rest below!

"Vain is our mournful weeping,
 Her gentle life is o'er;
Only the worm is creeping,
Where she will soon be sleeping
  Forevermore:
Nor joy nor love is keeping
  For her in store!"

Gloomy and black are the cypress-trees,
And drearily wave in the chill night breeze
The dark clouds part and the heavens are blue,
Where the trembling stars are shining through.
Slowly across the gleaming sky,
A crowd of white angels are passing by.
Like a fleet of swans they float along,
Or the silver notes of a dying song.
Like a cloud of incense their pinions rise,
Fading away up the purple skies.
But hush! for the silent glory is stirred,
By a strain such as earth has never heard;

"Open, O Heaven! we bear her,
 This gentle maiden mild,
Earth's griefs we gladly spare her,
From earthly joys we tear her,
  Still undefiled;
And to thine arms we bear her,
  Thine own, thy child.

Open, O Heaven! no morrow
 Will see this joy o'ercast,
No pain, no tears, no sorrow,
Her gentle heart will borrow;
  Sad life is past;
Shielded and safe from sorrow,
  At home at last."

But the vision faded and all was still,
On the purple valley and distant hill.
No sound was there save the wailing breeze,
The rain, and the rustling cypress-trees.