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the restored.
And each low wind that murmurs by,
Or lingers on her brown
Seems a whisper from the realm of peace,
The kiss of angels now;
And flowers are far more blessed things,—
The lowliest that bloom
Bear tracings of the loving hand
That raised her from the tomb.
Or lingers on her brown
Seems a whisper from the realm of peace,
The kiss of angels now;
And flowers are far more blessed things,—
The lowliest that bloom
Bear tracings of the loving hand
That raised her from the tomb.
Though she seemeth yet, with her noiseless step,
Some fair and fleeting shade,
And her voice hath the sound of a silver brook,
Low rippling down the glade;—
Though faint the flush that sometimes comes
Her glowing dreams to speak,
As the shadow of a rose-leaf cast
On a sculptured Psyche's cheek;—
Some fair and fleeting shade,
And her voice hath the sound of a silver brook,
Low rippling down the glade;—
Though faint the flush that sometimes comes
Her glowing dreams to speak,
As the shadow of a rose-leaf cast
On a sculptured Psyche's cheek;—
Life, life, is thrilling through her veins!
And her heart, these warm spring hours,
Waked to new raptures and new loves,
Seems beating under flowers,
Like a pulse in the brow of a young May Queen,
Just crowned in her morning bowers.
And her heart, these warm spring hours,
Waked to new raptures and new loves,
Seems beating under flowers,
Like a pulse in the brow of a young May Queen,
Just crowned in her morning bowers.
