Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/296



I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping, Life's fever o'er, Will there for me be any bright eye weeping That I'm no more? Will there be any heart still memory keeping Of heretofore?

When the great winds through leafless forests rushing, Like full hearts break, When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing, Sad music make; Will there be one whose heart despair is crushing Mourn for my sake?

When the bright sun upon that spot is shining With purest ray, And the small flowers their buds and blossoms twining, Burst through that clay; Will there be one still on that spot repining Lost hopes all day?

When the night shadows, with the ample sweeping Of her dark pall;