Page:Landon in Pictorial Album.pdf/5

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She is the fortunate—to die So young, so sinless, and so fair; The bitter pang, the heavy sigh, Is what the early grave will spare.

The ground is haunted where they kneel, For He is of earth's gifted few; Whose love a thousand others feel, Whose grief bids others sorrow too.

It is a glorious thing to be A poet—loved, and yet alone; To dream of immortality; To wake, and find it is your own.

To know that to the sorrowing heart Your words are language and relief; Of hope, of joy, of triumph part— The breath of love—the wail of grief.

Oh! mockery,—the poet's name Is dearly bought, by wretched years; He finds the golden haze of fame An April sunshine, made of tears.

What was his fate—who kneeling there, Asks only of the sun above To shine upon his Mary's hair, And witness to his truth and love?