O, tomb of the past
Where buried hopes lie,
In my visions I see
Thy phantoms pass by! 
A form, long departed,
  Before me appears;
A sweet voice, long silent,
  Again greets my ears.

Fond memory dwells
  On the things that have been;
And my eyes calmly gaze
  On a long vanished scene;
A scene such as memory
  Stores deep in the breast,
Which only appears
  In a season of rest.

Once more we wander,
  Her fair hand in mine;
Once more her promise,
  “I’ll ever be thine”;
Once more the parting,
  The shroud, and the pall,
The sods’ hollow thump
  As they coffinward fall.

The reverie ends—­
  All the fancies have flown;
And my sad, lonely heart,
  Now seems doubly alone;
As the Ivy, whose tendrils
  Reach longingly out,
Yet finds not an oak
  To entwine them about.

Love’s Plea.

I love thee, my darling, both now and forever,
  My heart feels the thralldom of love’s mystic spell,
’Tis fettered with shackles which nothing can sever,
  To the heart which responds to its passionate swell.

I love thee, my darling, with love that is stronger,
  Than all the fond ties which the heart holds enshrined;
Adversity, sorrow or pain can no longer
  Detract from this heart, if with thine intertwined.

I love thee, my darling, with sacred affection,
  Which death, nor the cycles of time shall efface;
Nor from my heart’s mirror, erase thy reflection,
  Nor tear thy fond heart from its fervent embrace.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.

Is there a Death?  The light of day
At eventide shall fade away;
From out the sod’s eternal gloom
The flowers, in their season, bloom;
Bud, bloom and fade, and soon the spot
Whereon they flourished knows them not;
Blighted by chill, autumnal frost;
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!”

Is there a Death?  Pale forms of men
To formless clay resolve again;
Sarcophagus of graven stone,
Nor solitary grave, unknown,
Mausoleum, or funeral urn,
No answer to our cries return;
Nor silent lips disclose their trust;
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!”

Is there a Death?  All forms of clay
Successively shall pass away;
But, as the joyous days of spring
Witness the glad awakening
Of nature’s forces, may not men,
In some due season, rise again? 
Then why this calm, inherent trust,
“If ashes to ashes, dust to dust?”

Despair.

Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;
  When vanishes each prospect fair,
When the last flickering ray has sped,
  And naught remains but mute despair;
When inky blackness doth enshroud
  The hopes the heart once held in store,
As some tall pine, by great winds bowed,
  Doth snap, and when the tempest’s o’er,
Its noble form, magnificent and proud,
  Doth prostrate lie, nor ever riseth more;
  Thus breaks the heart, which sees no hope before.