Page:Eight Harvard Poets.djvu/29

 THE NEW MACABER

HE pleasant graveyard of my soul With sentimental cypress trees And flowers is filled, that I may stroll In meditation, at my ease.

The little marble stones are lost In flowers surging from the dead; Nor is there any mournful ghost To wail until the night is sped.

And while night rustles through the trees, Dragging the stars along, I know The moon is rising on the breeze, Quivering as in a river's flow.

And ah! that moon of silver sheen! It is my heart hung in the sky; And no clouds ever float between The grave-flowers and my heart on high.

I do not read upon each stone The name that once was carven there; I merely note new blossoms blown And breathe the perfume of the air.

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