The Voice.
83
"Take off the withered buds that lie Faded on memory's bier,And lay fresh lilies on the pall, Nor one regretful tear;
"And bind fresh roses on thy brow, With myrtle interleaved,And amaranth and immortelle In chaplet interweaved."
And hear the voice, that thro' the pines Is speaking still to meIn whispers thro' the quivering leaves,— "My peace I give to thee."
