21.06.2007, 20:39
HER GHOST.
IN MEMORY OF CICELY NARNEY MARSTON.
I.
HER gentle ghost is with me everywhere!
'Twas here she came, one summer day, to die;
Whispered my name, and then, all silently,
Laid her loved head upon the pillow there
And spoke no more. That summer day was fair
And very glad with joyous minstrelsy
Of choiring birds, and heedless gayety
Of small, bright things who of the sun were 'ware:
But, in the midmost glow of life, on Death
She sudden chanced: he closed her dear, dark eyes;
The air grew heavy with her parting breath,
And Nature seemed to shiver in surprise;
And then the things that morning had begun
Fared on—she too, like them, had sought the sun.
IN MEMORY OF CICELY NARNEY MARSTON.
I.
HER gentle ghost is with me everywhere!
'Twas here she came, one summer day, to die;
Whispered my name, and then, all silently,
Laid her loved head upon the pillow there
And spoke no more. That summer day was fair
And very glad with joyous minstrelsy
Of choiring birds, and heedless gayety
Of small, bright things who of the sun were 'ware:
But, in the midmost glow of life, on Death
She sudden chanced: he closed her dear, dark eyes;
The air grew heavy with her parting breath,
And Nature seemed to shiver in surprise;
And then the things that morning had begun
Fared on—she too, like them, had sought the sun.