THE WILLOW
THE WILLOW
“Et moi, j’ai aussi été en Arcadie”
My parent stem was nurtured in the soil
Of St. Helena, near the grave of him
Who shook the world in many a battle-broil,
And died a captive where dark waters swim,
In that lone isle of Afric’s subtle coil—
A memory no time or age may dim.
Torn from that ever memorable tree,
I was borne long and weary miles away,
Across a mighty waste of restless sea,
To be enrooted in the honored clay
That guards the noblest son of Liberty
Asleep, awaiting the eternal day.
So, after mingling with heroic dust—
Napoleon, Washington—I came at last
To find a final resting place, I trust;
Where the Savannah’s tawny tide glides past
A city venerable and august—
In a glad garden I was fondly cast.
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