THE WILLOW
The reverend grandsire left my grateful shade
And baby eyes beheld my form no more;
The dazzling lawyer in the sod was laid;
The keen preceptor fell, with all his lore;
The brilliant master slumbers in the glade—
Not lost, but in due meekness gone before.
Still lingers my sweet matron, gravely bright,
With stalwart sons and daughters tall and grand.
They stand between her and the ghosts who might
Become a mournful, melancholy band.
I watch her, when the hours are aflight,
Her gaze uplifted to the shining strand!
Perchance, you think a willow has no tongue,
No sentient touch, no article of speech,
No power to soothe the heart, in anguish wrung,
No message to impart or moral teach.
But lo! a poet all my dreams has sung,
And who that sorcery will dare impeach?
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