Silence. Still faint on the porch Broke the flames of the stars. In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand Over keys, bolts, and bars.
A face peered. All the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone; Nought but vast sorrow was there-- The sweet cheat gone.
Clear eyes so dim at last, And cheeks outlive their rose. Time, heedless of the past, No loving kindness knows; Chill unto mortal lip Still Lethe flows.
Griefs, too, but brief while stay, And sorrow, being o'er, Its salt tears shed away, Woundeth the heart no more. Stealthily lave these waters That solemn shore.
Ah, then, sweet face burn on, While yet quick memory lives! And Sorrow, ere thou art gone, Know that my heart forgives-- Ere yet, grown cold in peace, It loves not, nor grieves.
When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes, Nor the rain make lamentation When the wind sighs; How will fare the world whose wonder Was the very proof of me? Memory fades, must the remembered Perishing be?
Oh, when this my dust surrenders Hand, foot, lip to dust again, May those loved and loving faces Please other men! May the rusting harvest hedgerow Still the Traveller's Joy entwine, And as happy children gather Posies once mine.
Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour. Let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou have paid thy utmost blessing; Since that all things thou wouldst praise Beauty took from those who loved them In other days.
Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the briar's boughs, When March winds wake, So old with their beauty are-- Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.
Very old are the brooks; And the rills that rise When snow sleeps cold beneath The azure skies Sing such a history Of come and gone, Their every drop is as wise As Solomon.
Very old are we men; Our dreams are tales Told in dim Eden By Eve's nightingales; We wake and whisper awhile, But, the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields Of Amaranth lie.
Who said, "Peacock Pie"? The old King to the sparrow: Who said, "Crops are ripe"? Rust to the harrow: Who said, "Where sleeps she now? Where rests she now her head, Bathed in Eve's loveliness"?-- That's what I said.
Who said, "Ay, mum's the word"? Sexton to willow: Who said, "Green dust for dreams, Moss for a pillow"? Who said, "All Time's delight Hath she for narrow bed; Life's troubled bubble broken"?-- That's what I said.