Page:Cheskian Anthology.pdf/114



very towers that time destroys,

Time may rebuild as built before;

But ruins of departed joys—

These can be rear'd to joy no more.

forests which the axe hath laid

In dust, may spring to life anew;

But—have the dying or the dead

A germ which spring can waken too?

love is wrapp'd in mortal clay—

But were a granite bed his own,

With mine own nails I'd dig my way,

Through even the hardest granite-stone.