80
Not Understood
And sometimes in the heap we find a missive edged with gloom—
We open up the envelope, and peep into the tomb;
What! have they placed these noble forms to rot beneath the sod?
Has Heaven no higher mission for the images of God?
The spirit gusts that sigh at night through cypress trees, reply—
“The jewel wears no casket in the treasury on high.”
We open up the envelope, and peep into the tomb;
What! have they placed these noble forms to rot beneath the sod?
Has Heaven no higher mission for the images of God?
The spirit gusts that sigh at night through cypress trees, reply—
“The jewel wears no casket in the treasury on high.”
Old letters! ye are records of events which leave a trace
Upon the map of memory, and, marching on apace,
We often turn and gaze across the continents and isles—
Those tracts are robed in sombre hues—these spots are decked with smiles;
When evening shades the mountain tops, and twilight shadows swell,
Old letters! ye are wizards then, that weave a dreamy spell.
Upon the map of memory, and, marching on apace,
We often turn and gaze across the continents and isles—
Those tracts are robed in sombre hues—these spots are decked with smiles;
When evening shades the mountain tops, and twilight shadows swell,
Old letters! ye are wizards then, that weave a dreamy spell.
