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[329] On, on through the darkness,
A spectre, I pass
Where, like moaning of broken hearts,
Surges the grass!
I see her lone head-stone,—
Tis white as a shroud;
Like a pall, hangs above it
The low drooping cloud.
Who speaks through the dark night
And lull of the wind?
Tis the sound of the pine-leaves
And sea-waves behind.
The dead girl is silent,—
I stand by her now;
And her pulse beats no quicker,
Nor crimsons her brow.
The small hand that trembled,
When last in my own,
Lies patient and folded,
And colder than stone.
Like the white blossoms falling
To-night in the gale,
So she in her beauty
Sank mournful and pale.
Yet I loved her! I utter
Such words by her grave,
As I would not have spoken
Her last breath to save.
Boston and New York, Houghton, Mifflin and company, 1888-89.
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