POEMS
A linnet on the hawthorn spray
Sang of the glories of the spring,
And made the flow'ring copses ring
With gladness for the new-born day.
A lark from out the grass I trod
Flew wildly, and was lost to view
In the great seamless veil of blue
That hangs before the face of God.
The willow whispered overhead
That death is but a newer life,
And that with idle words of strife
We bring dishonour on the dead.
I took a branch from off the tree,
And hawthorn-blossoms drenched with dew,
I bound them with a sprig of yew,
And made a garland fair to see.
I laid the flowers where He lies,
(Warm leaves and flowers on the stone);
What joy I had to sit alone
Till evening broke on tired eyes:
Till all the shifting clouds had spun
A robe of gold for God to wear,
And into seas of purple air
Sank the bright galley of the sun.
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