And I rested . . . the trees obove me
Showered leaves unto my bed,
And each floweret ’twixt the grasses
Waved at me its nodding head.
Thence I gazed far in the distance,
Listening to the ocean’s sound,
To whose elemental beauty,
No one yet the answer found.
And while gazing, thinking, dreaming,
Something stirred my soul again,
Like young birds . . . these sweet songs fluttered
Longing for their native plain.
I WAS EVER THINKING
I was ever thinking of unknown, distant lands,
Of flowered banks and palm trees that stretch in waving bands
Thinking of aged lions, of gulls in swooping flocks,
Of long forgotten cities and old bells on castle tops.
Thinking of lofty mountains and deep, unfothomed seas,
Of a splendid golden castle on a glass hill beyond the trees.
But now I think no longer of happy dreams gone by,
I think only of you dear and of my joy when you were nigh.
Now I am thinking only of each winter’s cold I knew
And if the grave you sleep in, is not too small for you.
I am forever thinking if in your verdant, grassy mound,
Your casket of bright metal is o’er weighted with the ground.
And I am ever thinking if you can see me sigh and yearn,
See how my heart grows weary, see how my sad eyes burn.
And I am ever thinking, throughout the day and night,
If the shroud of white we gave you, is not a bit too tight.
Dear, I am ever thinking if you could take me with,
As I used to take you, when you sighed or cried a bit.
Yes, I am ever thinking that when all my grief is post
In your embrace, my dear one, I’ll find happiness at last.
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