This is the pathway where she walked, The tender grass pressed by her feet. The laurel boughs laced overhead, Shut out the noonday heat. The sunshine gladly stole between The softly undulating limbs. From every blade and leaf arose The myriad insect hymns. A brook ran murmuring beneath The grateful twilight of the trees, Where from the dripping pebbles swelled A beech’s mossy knees. And there her robe of spotless white, (Pure white such purity beseemed!) Her angel face, and tresses bright Within the basin gleamed. The coy sweetbriers half detained Her light hem as we moved along! To hear the music of her voice The mockbird hushed his song. But now her little feet are still, Her lips the Everlasting seal; The hideous secrets of the grave The weeping eyes reveal. The path still winds, the brook descends, The skies are bright as then they were. My Amy is the only leaf In all that forest sear.
Amy
More from Poet
-
Go bow thy head in gentle spite, Thou lily white, For she who spies thee waving here, With thee in beauty can compare As day with night. Soft are thy leaves and white: her arms Boast whiter charms. Thy stem prone bent with loveliness Of maiden grace possesseth less: Therein she charms. Thou in...
-
A peasant stood before a king and said, “My children starve, I come to thee for bread.” On cushions soft and silken sat enthroned The king, and looked on him that prayed and moaned, Who cried again,—“For bread I come to thee.” For grief, like wine, the tongue will render free. Then said the...
-
This is the pathway where she walked, The tender grass pressed by her feet. The laurel boughs laced overhead, Shut out the noonday heat. The sunshine gladly stole between The softly undulating limbs. From every blade and leaf arose The myriad insect hymns. A brook ran murmuring...