| |
| I GAZED upon the glorious sky | |
| And the green mountains round, | |
| And thought that when I came to lie | |
| At rest within the ground, | |
| ’T were pleasant that, in flowery June, | 5 |
| 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 mould, | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| Earth green beneath the feet, | |
| And be the damp mould gently pressed | |
| Into my narrow place of rest. | |
| |
| There through the long, long summer hours, | |
| The golden light should lie, | 20 |
| 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 | 25 |
| 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 | 30 |
| With fairy laughter blent? | |
| And what if, in the evening light, | |
| Betrothëd lovers walk in sight | |
| Of my low monument? | |
| I would the lovely scene around | 35 |
| 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; | 40 |
| 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. | 45 |
| |
| 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 | 50 |
| The circuit of the summer hills, | |
| Is that his grave is green; | |
| And deeply would their hearts rejoice | |
| To hear again his living voice. | |
| |
