Poems (Sharpless)/The Voice of the Pine

by Frances M. Sharpless

THE VOICE OF THE PINE

The voice of the breeze,—it soundeth
 Thro' the grand old Silver Pines,
Like the solemn tone of the ocean,
 Responsive to stormy winds.

A thousand thoughts it calleth
 From the graves of many years,
Where the hopes of girlhood slumber,
 Imbalmed in bitter tears.

The voice of the Pine—it soothed me
 Thro' weary hours of pain,
Like my mother's gentle look and smile,
 I ne'er shall know again.

Beside the ruddy fire I sit,
 In the gray twilight alone;
Save the phantoms that round me gather
 At the call of the Pine Tree's moan.

A step on the walk—it neareth,
 As always her step would come,
And I rise, as I hasted in Auld Lang Syne,
 To welcome the dear one home.

I gaze wistfully out at the window,
 But darkness meets my eyne;
And my heart sinks low, as it knows her step
 Was mocked by the Voice of the Pine.

Oh, heart! whose hope, deferred,
 Sickened and died thro' years,
Look where the Pine-trees beckon,
 If thou canst see for tears.

Look up to the starry heavens,
 That spread so broad and fair;
And gird up thy strength to hasten
 To her who awaits thee there.

Then the voice of the Pine shall token
 The sweep of the angel's wing,
Who shall loosen the cord that binds thee
 To a life-long sorrowing.