Page:Scenes and Hymns of Life.pdf/35

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In the stream's voice; but Nature waits thee still, And for thy coming piles a fairy throne Of richest moss.

Lilian.Alas! it may not be! My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly, To all these blessed haunts of song and thought; Yet not the less I love to look on these, Their dear memorials;—strew them o'er my couch, Till it grow like a forest bank in spring, All flush'd with violets and anemones. Ah! the pale brier rose! touch'd so tenderly, As a pure ocean shell, with faintest red, Melting away to pearliness!—I know How its long light festoons o'erarching hung From the grey rock, that rises alter-like, With its high waving crown of mountain ash, 'Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough Of honey'd woodbine, tells me of the oak Whose deep midsummer gloom sleeps heavily, Shedding a verdurous twilight o'er the face