1855

JUNE

I gazed upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round;
And thought that when I came to lie
At rest within the ground,
’Twere pleasant that in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune
And groves a joyous sound,
The sexton’s hand, my grave to make,
The rich green mountain turf should break.

     A cell within the frozen mold,
       A coffin borne through sleet,
     And icy clods above it rolled,
       While fierce the tempests beat—­
     Away!  I will not think of these: 
     Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,
       Earth green beneath the feet,
     And be the damp mold gently pressed
     Into my narrow place of rest.

     There through the long, long summer hours
       The golden light should lie,
     And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
       Stand in their beauty by;
     The oriole should build and tell
     His love-tale close beside my cell;
       The idle butterfly
     Should rest him there, and there be heard
     The housewife bee and humming-bird.

     And what if cheerful shouts at noon
       Come, from the village sent,
     Or songs of maids beneath the moon,
       With fairy laughter blent? 
     And what if, in the evening light,
     Betrothed lovers walk in sight
       Of my low monument? 
     I would the lovely scene around
     Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

     I know that I no more should see
       The season’s glorious show,
     Nor would its brightness shine for me,
       Nor its wild music flow;
     But if, around my place of sleep. 
     The friends I love should come to weep,
       They might not haste to go. 
     Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,
     Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

     These to their softened hearts should bear
       The thought of what has been,
     And speak of one who cannot share
       The gladness of the scene;
     Whose part in all the pomp that fills
     The circuit of the summer hills
       Is—­that his grave is green;
     And deeply would their hearts rejoice
     To hear again his living voice.

     TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN

     Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew,
     And colored with the heaven’s own blue,
     That openest when the quiet light
     Succeeds the keen and frosty night;

     Thou comest not when violets lean
     O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
     Or columbines, in purple dressed,
     Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest.

     Thou waitest late, and com’st alone,
     When woods are bare and birds are flown,
     And frost and shortening days portend
     The aged Year is near his end.

     Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
     Look through its fringes to the sky,
     Blue—­blue—­as if that sky let fall
     A flower from its cerulean wall.