Classic Poem

XXXI.

He knew not how, but soon was gone
The phantom shape that blessed his eyes;
The churchyard yew-tree, black and lone,
Stood up against the starry skies.

XXXII.

Bewildered, yet consoled, he rose,
And looked abroad; the east was breaking,
It was the night's grey chilly close,
The day's fresh golden waking.

XXXIII.

He left the village, crossed the rill,
While dawn's pale gleams had scarce begun;
He climbed the elm-bedarkened hill,
And in the churchyard faced the sun.

XXXIV.

Beneath a clear unruffled morn,
Beside the grave he knelt in prayer;
There breathed a voice to soothe and warn,
And still Repose was whispering there.

XXXV.

And there he saw the gentle maid
Whose earliest grief was like his own;
To him it seemed his mother bade
Their hearts should each to each be known.

XXXVI.

Yet passed a week as if no more
They could recall their mournful meeting;
And then, when seven long days were o'er,
Again they spoke with timid greeting.

XXXVII.

Amid the noiseless crystal morn
They stood below the nightly yew;
They dared not feel new hopes were born
For both, and trembling pleasures new.

XXXVIII.

Now neither sat beside the grave,
They stood below the old yew-tree,
That with its sable shadows gave
A home where grief might love to be.

XXXIX.

They speak of these so lately gone,
And words of sorrow dry their tears;
And even when the tear flows on
It each to each the more endears.

XL.

For grief like theirs, without remorse,
Is yet a gentle hallowed feeling,
And darkens not the limpid source
Of joy, from love's deep fountain stealing.