The Project Gutenberg eBook ofRosemary and Pansies

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofRosemary and PansiesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Rosemary and PansiesAuthor: Effie Waller SmithRelease date: November 17, 2020 [eBook #63790]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by The InternetArchive/American Libraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSEMARY AND PANSIES ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Rosemary and PansiesAuthor: Effie Waller SmithRelease date: November 17, 2020 [eBook #63790]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by The InternetArchive/American Libraries.)

Title: Rosemary and Pansies

Author: Effie Waller Smith

Release date: November 17, 2020 [eBook #63790]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by The InternetArchive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSEMARY AND PANSIES ***

EFFIE SMITHBOSTONRICHARD G. BADGERTHE GORHAM PRESS1909Copyright, 1909, by Effie SmithAll Rights ReservedThe Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.

ROSEMARY AND PANSIES

In a churchyard old and still,Where the breeze-touched branches thrillTo and fro,Giant oak trees blend their shadeO’er a sunken grave-mound, madeLong ago.No stone, crumbling at its head,Bears the mossed name of the deadGraven deep;But a myriad blossoms’ graceClothes with trembling light the placeOf his sleep.Was a young man in his strengthLaid beneath this low mound’s length,Heeding naught?Did a maiden’s parents wailAs they saw her, pulseless, pale,Hither brought?Was it else one full of days,Who had traveled darksome ways,And was tired,Who looked forth unto the end,And saw Death come as a friendLong desired?Who it was that rests belowNot earth’s wisest now may know,Or can tell;But these blossoms witness bearThey who laid the sleeper thereLoved him well.In the dust that closed him o’erPlanted they the garden storeDeemed most sweet,Till the fragrant gleam, outspread,Swept in beauty from his headTo his feet.Still, in early springtime’s glow,Guelder-roses cast their snowO’er his rest;Still sweet-williams breathe perfumeWhere the peonies’ crimson bloomDrapes his breast.Passing stranger, pity notHim who lies here, all forgot,’Neath this earth;Some one loved him—more can fallTo no mortal. Love is allLife is worth.

In a churchyard old and still,Where the breeze-touched branches thrillTo and fro,Giant oak trees blend their shadeO’er a sunken grave-mound, madeLong ago.

No stone, crumbling at its head,Bears the mossed name of the deadGraven deep;But a myriad blossoms’ graceClothes with trembling light the placeOf his sleep.

Was a young man in his strengthLaid beneath this low mound’s length,Heeding naught?Did a maiden’s parents wailAs they saw her, pulseless, pale,Hither brought?

Was it else one full of days,Who had traveled darksome ways,And was tired,Who looked forth unto the end,And saw Death come as a friendLong desired?

Who it was that rests belowNot earth’s wisest now may know,Or can tell;But these blossoms witness bearThey who laid the sleeper thereLoved him well.

In the dust that closed him o’erPlanted they the garden storeDeemed most sweet,Till the fragrant gleam, outspread,Swept in beauty from his headTo his feet.

Still, in early springtime’s glow,Guelder-roses cast their snowO’er his rest;Still sweet-williams breathe perfumeWhere the peonies’ crimson bloomDrapes his breast.

Passing stranger, pity notHim who lies here, all forgot,’Neath this earth;Some one loved him—more can fallTo no mortal. Love is allLife is worth.

Upon the dim Judean hills,The shepherds watched their flock by night,When on their unexpectant gazeOutshone that vision of delight,The fairest that did ever riseTo awe and gladden earthly eyes.From no far realm those shepherds came,Treading the pilgrim’s weary road;Not theirs the vigil and the fastWithin the hermit’s mean abode;’Twas at their usual task they stood,When dawned that light of matchless good.Not only to the sage and seerLife’s revelation comes in grace;Most often on the toiler true,Who, working steadfast in his place,Looks for the coming of God’s will,The glorious vision shineth still.

Upon the dim Judean hills,The shepherds watched their flock by night,When on their unexpectant gazeOutshone that vision of delight,The fairest that did ever riseTo awe and gladden earthly eyes.

From no far realm those shepherds came,Treading the pilgrim’s weary road;Not theirs the vigil and the fastWithin the hermit’s mean abode;’Twas at their usual task they stood,When dawned that light of matchless good.

Not only to the sage and seerLife’s revelation comes in grace;Most often on the toiler true,Who, working steadfast in his place,Looks for the coming of God’s will,The glorious vision shineth still.

Our dead forefathers, mighty though they be,For all their power still leave our spirits free;Though on our paths their shadows far are thrown,The life that each man liveth is his own.Time stands like some schoolmaster old and stern,And calls each human being in his turnTo write his task upon life’s blackboard space;Death’s fingers then the finished work erase,And the next pupil’s letters take its place.That he who wrote before thee labored wellConcerns thee not: thy work for thee must tell;’Tis naught to thee if others’ tasks were ill:Thou hast thy chance and canst improve it still.From all thy fathers’ glory and their guiltThe board for thee is clean: write what thou wilt!

Our dead forefathers, mighty though they be,For all their power still leave our spirits free;Though on our paths their shadows far are thrown,The life that each man liveth is his own.

Time stands like some schoolmaster old and stern,And calls each human being in his turnTo write his task upon life’s blackboard space;Death’s fingers then the finished work erase,And the next pupil’s letters take its place.

That he who wrote before thee labored wellConcerns thee not: thy work for thee must tell;’Tis naught to thee if others’ tasks were ill:Thou hast thy chance and canst improve it still.From all thy fathers’ glory and their guiltThe board for thee is clean: write what thou wilt!

O giant oak, majestic, dark, and old,A hundred summers in the woodland vast,From the rich suns that lit thy glories past,In thy huge trunk thou storedst warmth untold;Now, when the drifted snows the hills enfold,And the wild woods are shaken in the blast,O’er this bright hearth thou sendest out at lastThe long-pent sunshine that thine heart did hold.Like thee, O noble oak-tree, I would storeFrom days of joy all beauty and delight,All radiant warmth that makes life’s summer bright,So that I may, when sunniest hours are o’er,Still from my heart their treasured gleam outpour,To cheer some spirit in its winter night.

Like thee, O noble oak-tree, I would storeFrom days of joy all beauty and delight,All radiant warmth that makes life’s summer bright,So that I may, when sunniest hours are o’er,Still from my heart their treasured gleam outpour,To cheer some spirit in its winter night.

I dare not hope that in this dawning yearI shall accomplish all my dreams hold dear;That I, when this year closes, shall have wroughtAll the high tasks that my ambitions sought,And that I shall be then the spirit free,Strong, and unselfish, that I long to be.But truly do I hope, resolve, and prayThat, as the new year passes, day by dayMy footsteps, howsoever short and slow,Shall still press forward in the path they go,And that my eyes, uplifted evermore,Shall look forth dauntless to the things before;And when this new year with the old has gone,I still may courage have to struggle on.

But truly do I hope, resolve, and prayThat, as the new year passes, day by dayMy footsteps, howsoever short and slow,Shall still press forward in the path they go,And that my eyes, uplifted evermore,Shall look forth dauntless to the things before;And when this new year with the old has gone,I still may courage have to struggle on.

Pale coin, what various hands have you passed throughEre you to-day within my hand were laid?Perchance a laborer’s well-earned hire you made;Some miser may have gloated long on you;Perhaps some pitying hand to Want outthrew;And, lost and won through devious tricks of trade,You may have been, alas! the full price paidFor some poor soul that loved you past your due.No doubt ’tis well, O imaged Liberty,You see not where your placid face is thrust,Nor know how far man is from being free,Bound as he is by money’s fateful lust,While to his anxious soul like mockerySeem those fair, graven words: “In God we trust.”

No doubt ’tis well, O imaged Liberty,You see not where your placid face is thrust,Nor know how far man is from being free,Bound as he is by money’s fateful lust,While to his anxious soul like mockerySeem those fair, graven words: “In God we trust.”

“I have no time for those things now,” we say;“But in the future just a little way,No longer by this ceaseless toil oppressed,I shall have leisure then for thought and rest.When I the debts upon my land have paid,Or on foundations firm my business laid,I shall take time for discourse long and sweetWith those beloved who round my hearthstone meet;I shall take time on mornings still and coolTo seek the freshness dim of wood and pool,Where, calmed and hallowed by great Nature’s peace,My life from its hot cares shall find release;I shall take time to think on destiny,Of what I was and am and yet shall be,Till in the hush my soul may nearer proveTo that great Soul in whom we live and move.All this I shall do sometime but not now—The press of business cares will not allow.”And thus our life glides on year after year;The promised leisure never comes more near.Perhaps the aim on which we placed our mindIs high, and its attainment slow to find;Or if we reach the mark that we have set,We still would seek another, farther yet.Thus all our youth, our strength, our time go pastTill death upon the threshold stands at last,And back unto our Maker we must giveThe life we spent preparing well to live.

Upon the eve of Bosworth, it is said,While Richard waited through the drear night’s gloomUntil wan morn the death-field should illume,Those he had murdered came with soundless treadTo daunt his soul with prophecies of dread,And bid him know that, gliding from the tomb,They would fight ’gainst him in his hour of doomUntil with theirs should lie his discrowned head.To every man, in life’s decisive hour,Ghosts of the past do through the conflict glide,And for him or against him wield their power;Lost hopes and wasted days and aims that diedRise spectral where the fateful war-clouds lower,And their pale hands the battle shall decide.

To every man, in life’s decisive hour,Ghosts of the past do through the conflict glide,And for him or against him wield their power;Lost hopes and wasted days and aims that diedRise spectral where the fateful war-clouds lower,And their pale hands the battle shall decide.

Love is a rainbow that appearsWhen heaven’s sunshine lights earth’s tears.All varied colors of the lightWithin its beauteous arch unite:There Passion’s glowing crimson hueBurns near Truth’s rich and deathless blue;And Jealousy’s green lights unfold’Mid Pleasure’s tints of flame and gold.O dark life’s stormy sky would seem,If love’s clear rainbow did not gleam!

Love is a rainbow that appearsWhen heaven’s sunshine lights earth’s tears.

All varied colors of the lightWithin its beauteous arch unite:

There Passion’s glowing crimson hueBurns near Truth’s rich and deathless blue;

And Jealousy’s green lights unfold’Mid Pleasure’s tints of flame and gold.

O dark life’s stormy sky would seem,If love’s clear rainbow did not gleam!

Men, for the sake of those they loved,Have met death unafraid,Deeming by safety of their friendsTheir life’s loss well repaid.Men have attained, by dauntless toil,To purpose pure and high,The darkness of their rugged waysLit by a loved one’s eye.Heroes were they, yet God to themGave not the task most hard,For sweet it is to live or dieWhen love is our reward.The bravest soul that ever livedIs he, unloved, unknown,Who has chosen to walk life’s highest path,Though he must walk alone;Who has toiled with sure and steadfast handsThrough all his lonely days,Unhelped by Love’s sweet services,Uncheered by Love’s sweet praise;Who, by no earthly honors crowned,Kinglike has lived and died,Giving his best to life, though lifeTo him her best denied.

Men, for the sake of those they loved,Have met death unafraid,Deeming by safety of their friendsTheir life’s loss well repaid.

Men have attained, by dauntless toil,To purpose pure and high,The darkness of their rugged waysLit by a loved one’s eye.

Heroes were they, yet God to themGave not the task most hard,For sweet it is to live or dieWhen love is our reward.

The bravest soul that ever livedIs he, unloved, unknown,Who has chosen to walk life’s highest path,Though he must walk alone;

Who has toiled with sure and steadfast handsThrough all his lonely days,Unhelped by Love’s sweet services,Uncheered by Love’s sweet praise;

Who, by no earthly honors crowned,Kinglike has lived and died,Giving his best to life, though lifeTo him her best denied.

O ancient ocean, with what courage sternThy tides, since time began, have sought to gainThe luring moon, toward which they rise in vain,Yet daily to their futile aim return.Like thee do glorious human spirits yearnAnd strive and fail and strive and fail againSome starlike aspiration to attain,Some light that ever shall above them burn.Yet truly shall their recompense abideTo all who strive, although unreached their goal:The ceaseless surgings of the ocean tideDo cleanse the mighty waters which they roll,And the high dreams in which it vainly sighedMake pure the deeps of the aspiring soul.

Yet truly shall their recompense abideTo all who strive, although unreached their goal:The ceaseless surgings of the ocean tideDo cleanse the mighty waters which they roll,And the high dreams in which it vainly sighedMake pure the deeps of the aspiring soul.

“He fears not death, and therefore he is brave”—How common yet how childish is the thought,As if death were the hardest battle fought,And earth held naught more dreadful than the grave!In life, not death, doth lie the brave soul’s test,For life demandeth purpose long and sure,The strength to strive, the patience to endure;Death calls for one brief struggle, then gives rest.Through our fleet years then let us do our partWith willing arm, clear brain, and steady nerve;In death’s dark hour no spirit true will swerve,If he have lived his life with dauntless heart.

“He fears not death, and therefore he is brave”—How common yet how childish is the thought,As if death were the hardest battle fought,And earth held naught more dreadful than the grave!

In life, not death, doth lie the brave soul’s test,For life demandeth purpose long and sure,The strength to strive, the patience to endure;Death calls for one brief struggle, then gives rest.

Through our fleet years then let us do our partWith willing arm, clear brain, and steady nerve;In death’s dark hour no spirit true will swerve,If he have lived his life with dauntless heart.

Pale little feet, grown quiet ere they could runOne step in life’s strange journey; sweet lips chilledTo silence ere they prattled; small hands stilledBefore one stroke of life’s long toil was done;Uncreased white brows that laurels might have won,Yet leave their spacious promise unfulfilled—O baby dead, I cannot think God willedYour life should end when it had scarce begun!If no man died till his long life should leaveAll hopes and aims fulfilled, until his feetHad trod all paths where men rejoice or grieve,I might have doubt of future life more sweet;But as I look on you, I must believeThere is a heaven that makes this earth complete.

If no man died till his long life should leaveAll hopes and aims fulfilled, until his feetHad trod all paths where men rejoice or grieve,I might have doubt of future life more sweet;But as I look on you, I must believeThere is a heaven that makes this earth complete.

Our Father, whose unchanging loveGives soil and sun and rain,We thank Thee that the seeds we sowedWere planted not in vain,But that Thy hand the year hath crownedWith wealth of fruits and grain.But more we thank Thee for the hopeWhich hath our solace been,That when the harvests of our livesHave all been gathered in,Our weary hearts and toil-worn handsThy welcoming smile shall win.We thank Thee for the cheerful boardAt which fond faces meet,And for the human loves that makeOur transient years so sweet;We thank Thee most for hopes of heavenWhere love shall be complete.Though on some dear, remembered faceNo more the hearth lights shine,We thank Thee that the friends we lovedAre kept by love divine,And though they pass beyond our gaze,They do not pass from Thine.If at the harvest feast no moreOur words and smiles shall blend,We thank Thee that, though sundered far,Our steps still homeward tend,And that our Father’s open doorAwaits us at the end.

Our Father, whose unchanging loveGives soil and sun and rain,We thank Thee that the seeds we sowedWere planted not in vain,But that Thy hand the year hath crownedWith wealth of fruits and grain.

But more we thank Thee for the hopeWhich hath our solace been,That when the harvests of our livesHave all been gathered in,Our weary hearts and toil-worn handsThy welcoming smile shall win.

We thank Thee for the cheerful boardAt which fond faces meet,And for the human loves that makeOur transient years so sweet;We thank Thee most for hopes of heavenWhere love shall be complete.

Though on some dear, remembered faceNo more the hearth lights shine,We thank Thee that the friends we lovedAre kept by love divine,And though they pass beyond our gaze,They do not pass from Thine.

If at the harvest feast no moreOur words and smiles shall blend,We thank Thee that, though sundered far,Our steps still homeward tend,And that our Father’s open doorAwaits us at the end.

Between us and the starred vasts overheadBroad-builded roofs we spread,Thus shutting from our view the wonders highOf the clear midnight sky;Yet all our roofs make not more faint or farOne ray of one dim star.Our souls build o’er them roofs of dread and doubt,And think they shut God out;Yet all the while, remembering though forgot,That vast Love, changing not,Abides, and, spite of all our faithless fear,Shines nevermore less near.

Our souls build o’er them roofs of dread and doubt,And think they shut God out;Yet all the while, remembering though forgot,That vast Love, changing not,Abides, and, spite of all our faithless fear,Shines nevermore less near.

We sigh for human love, from whichA whim or chance shall sever,And leave unsought the love of God,Though God’s love lasts forever.We seek earth’s peace in things that passLike foam upon the river,While, steadfast as the stars on high,God’s peace abides forever.Man’s help, for which we yearn, gives way,As trees in storm-winds quiver,But, mightier than all human need,God’s help remains forever.Turn unto Thee our wavering hearts,O Thou who failest never;Give us Thy love and Thy great peace,And be our Help forever!

We sigh for human love, from whichA whim or chance shall sever,And leave unsought the love of God,Though God’s love lasts forever.

We seek earth’s peace in things that passLike foam upon the river,While, steadfast as the stars on high,God’s peace abides forever.

Man’s help, for which we yearn, gives way,As trees in storm-winds quiver,But, mightier than all human need,God’s help remains forever.

Turn unto Thee our wavering hearts,O Thou who failest never;Give us Thy love and Thy great peace,And be our Help forever!

If Christ should come to my store to-day,What would he think, what would he say?If his eyes on my opened ledgers were laid,Would they meet a record of unfair trade,And see that, lured by the love of pelf,For a trivial price I had sold myself?Or would he the stainless record beholdOf perfect integrity, richer than gold?If Christ should come to my school-room to-day,What would he think, what would he say?Would he find me giving the self-same careTo stupid and poor as to rich and fair,And striving, unmindful of praise or blame,Through tedious tasks to a lofty aim,Guiding small feet as they forward plodIn paths of duty that lead to God?If Christ should come to my workshop to-day,What would he think, what would he say?Would his eye, as it glanced my work along,See that all its parts were stanch and strong,Closely fitted, firm-welded, and good,Of flawless steel and of unwarped wood,As sound as I trust my soul shall beWhen tried by the test of eternity?If Christ should come to my kitchen to-day,What would he think, what would he say?Would he find me with blithesome and grateful heartAnd hands well-skilled in the housewife’s art,Bearing sordid cares with a spirit sweet,And making the lowliest tasks complete?Cometh he not, who of old did say,“Lo, I am with you, my friends, alway”?O thought that our weary hearts must thrill,In our toilsome ways he is present still!At counter and forge, in office and field,He stands, to no mortal eye revealed.Ah, if we only could realizeThat ever those gentle yet searching eyesGaze on our work with approval or blame,Our slipshod lives would not be the same!For, thrilled by the gaze of the unseen Guest,In our daily toil we would do our best.

If Christ should come to my school-room to-day,What would he think, what would he say?Would he find me giving the self-same careTo stupid and poor as to rich and fair,And striving, unmindful of praise or blame,Through tedious tasks to a lofty aim,Guiding small feet as they forward plodIn paths of duty that lead to God?

If Christ should come to my workshop to-day,What would he think, what would he say?Would his eye, as it glanced my work along,See that all its parts were stanch and strong,Closely fitted, firm-welded, and good,Of flawless steel and of unwarped wood,As sound as I trust my soul shall beWhen tried by the test of eternity?

If Christ should come to my kitchen to-day,What would he think, what would he say?Would he find me with blithesome and grateful heartAnd hands well-skilled in the housewife’s art,Bearing sordid cares with a spirit sweet,And making the lowliest tasks complete?

Cometh he not, who of old did say,“Lo, I am with you, my friends, alway”?O thought that our weary hearts must thrill,In our toilsome ways he is present still!At counter and forge, in office and field,He stands, to no mortal eye revealed.

Ah, if we only could realizeThat ever those gentle yet searching eyesGaze on our work with approval or blame,Our slipshod lives would not be the same!For, thrilled by the gaze of the unseen Guest,In our daily toil we would do our best.

Myrrh and frankincense and gold—Thus the ancient story told—When the seers found Him they sought,To the wondrous babe they brought.Let us—ours the selfsame quest—Bear unto the Christ our best.If to him, as to our King,We the gift of gold would bring,Be it royal offering!Gold unstained by stealth or greed,Gold outflung to all earth’s need,That hath softened human woe—Helped the helpless, raised the low.Frankincense for him is meet,Yet no Orient odors sweetAre to him as fragrant giftAs white thoughts to God uplift,And a life that soars sublime,Sweet above ill scents of time.Last, from out the Magians’ store,Myrrh, as for one dead, they bore;While, perchance, their lifted eyesViewed afar the Sacrifice.Let us to the sepulcherBring a richer gift than myrrh:Love that will not yield to dreadWhen all human hopes have fled;Faith that falters not nor quailsWhen the waning earth-light fails,Saying, “Shall I be afraidOf the dark where Thou wast laid?”

If to him, as to our King,We the gift of gold would bring,Be it royal offering!Gold unstained by stealth or greed,Gold outflung to all earth’s need,That hath softened human woe—Helped the helpless, raised the low.

Frankincense for him is meet,Yet no Orient odors sweetAre to him as fragrant giftAs white thoughts to God uplift,And a life that soars sublime,Sweet above ill scents of time.

Last, from out the Magians’ store,Myrrh, as for one dead, they bore;While, perchance, their lifted eyesViewed afar the Sacrifice.

Let us to the sepulcherBring a richer gift than myrrh:Love that will not yield to dreadWhen all human hopes have fled;Faith that falters not nor quailsWhen the waning earth-light fails,Saying, “Shall I be afraidOf the dark where Thou wast laid?”

If thou the lives of men wouldst bless,Live thine own life in faithfulness;Thine own hard task, if made complete,Shall render others’ toil more sweet;Thy grief, if bravely thou endure,Shall give men’s sorrow solace sure;Thy peril, if met undismayed,Shall make the fearful less afraid.Each step in right paths firmly trodShall break some thorn or crush some clod,Making the way more smooth and freeFor him who treads it after thee.

If thou the lives of men wouldst bless,Live thine own life in faithfulness;Thine own hard task, if made complete,Shall render others’ toil more sweet;

Thy grief, if bravely thou endure,Shall give men’s sorrow solace sure;Thy peril, if met undismayed,Shall make the fearful less afraid.

Each step in right paths firmly trodShall break some thorn or crush some clod,Making the way more smooth and freeFor him who treads it after thee.

No song lends these calm vales a deathless name;No hero, to a nation’s honors grown,Claims as his birthplace these rude hills unknown;No pomp of hostile armies ever came,Marring these fields with storied blood and flame;And yet the darkest tragedies of time,Of love and death the mysteries sublimeHave thrilled this tranquil spot, unmarked of fame.Here the long conflict between good and illHas been fought out to shame or victory,Darkly and madly as in scenes renowned.Ah, though unnamed in human records, stillWithin the annals of eternityThis place obscure is true historic ground!

Here the long conflict between good and illHas been fought out to shame or victory,Darkly and madly as in scenes renowned.Ah, though unnamed in human records, stillWithin the annals of eternityThis place obscure is true historic ground!

What a sleeping-place is here!O vast mountain, grim and drear,Though, throughout their life’s hard round,To thy sons, in long toil bound,Thou from stony hill and fieldDidst a scanty sustenance yield,Surely thou art kinder now!Here, beneath the gray cliff’s brow,Sleep they in the hemlocks’ gloom,And no king has prouder tomb.Far above the clustered mounds,Through the trees the faint wind sounds,Waking in each dusky leafSobs of immemorial grief;And while silent years pass by,Dark boughs lifted toward the skyLike wild arms appealing toss,As if they were mad with loss,And with human hearts did shareGrief’s long protest and despair.No tall marbles, gleaming white,Here reflect the softened light;Yet beside the hillocks greenRude, uncarven stones are seen,Brought there from the mountain sideBy the mourners’ love and pride.There, too, scattered o’er the grassOf the graves, are bits of glassThat with white shells mingled lie.Smile not, ye who pass them by,For the love that placed them thereDeemed that they were things most fair.Now, when from their souls at lastLife’s long paltriness has passed,The unending strife for breadThat has stunted heart and head,These tired toilers may forgetAll earth’s trivial care and fret.Haply death may give them moreThan they ever dreamed before,And may recompense them quiteFor all lack of life’s delight;Death may to their gaze unbarSummits vaster, loftier farThan the blue peaks that surroundThis still-shadowed burial ground.

Far above the clustered mounds,Through the trees the faint wind sounds,Waking in each dusky leafSobs of immemorial grief;And while silent years pass by,Dark boughs lifted toward the skyLike wild arms appealing toss,As if they were mad with loss,And with human hearts did shareGrief’s long protest and despair.

No tall marbles, gleaming white,Here reflect the softened light;Yet beside the hillocks greenRude, uncarven stones are seen,Brought there from the mountain sideBy the mourners’ love and pride.

There, too, scattered o’er the grassOf the graves, are bits of glassThat with white shells mingled lie.Smile not, ye who pass them by,For the love that placed them thereDeemed that they were things most fair.

Now, when from their souls at lastLife’s long paltriness has passed,The unending strife for breadThat has stunted heart and head,These tired toilers may forgetAll earth’s trivial care and fret.Haply death may give them moreThan they ever dreamed before,And may recompense them quiteFor all lack of life’s delight;Death may to their gaze unbarSummits vaster, loftier farThan the blue peaks that surroundThis still-shadowed burial ground.

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