DIRGE.
233
But they are gone,—the holy ones
Who trod with me this lovely vale;
The strong, star-bright companions
Are silent, low, and pale.
My good, my noble, in their prime,
Who made this world the feast it was,
Who learned with me the lore of time,
Who loved this dwelling-place!
They took this valley for their toy,
They played with it in every mood;
A cell for prayer, a hall for joy,—
They treated nature as they would.
They colored the horizon round;
Stars flamed and faded as they bade;
All echoes hearkened for their sound,—
They made the woodlands glad or mad.
I touch this flower of silken leaf,
Which once our childhood knew;
