Sonett-Forum

A POET'S GRAVE

I

AY, grant it, friend, it is a lowly bed.
Pranked with the daisies that he held so dear,
And with the pale, pure violets nodding near,
Like those he clasped when first they found him dead.

To curious questioners let it be said :
"He sang his songs the world paused not to hear,
And now he lieth where no late, slow tear
Can answer for the love he sought instead."

Young ? Yes, ah very young he was to die ;
He had so much to live for! His was joy
Unspeakable to see the morning lie

Upon the hills, and bliss without alloy
To see the sunset flush along the sky ;
But dawn nor dusk shall wake him now — poor boy !



II


He loved the sunlight and he loved the rain ;
He loved the darkness and he loved the light;
He loved the morning and he loved the night;
He loved the meadows and he loved the main.

To see the springtime blossom he was fain,
And winter's snows were goodly in his sight;
Yea, all the seasons in their rapid flght
Brought joy to him. though not unmixed with pain.

But now he lieth where the fallen leaf
Begets no vague regret within his breast,
And never summer-tide, however brief,

Can mar the sweetness of his hallowed rest.
He sleeps secure from dreams of joy or grief,
And in his dreamless slumber he is blest.