  WHEN winter’s loom of cloud Weaves robes of snow To wrap the hills in shroud, My meditations go Where shuddering tempests blow Above a little grave. When spring’s pale wild-flowers wake Where sunbeams play, Must not my full heart break? Birds, blossoms, come with May,— Would that, some happy day, My child could come again. When air-built cloud-fleets sail Blue summer’s sky, And violets exhale Their fragrant souls and die, My soul lifts Rachel’s cry, For, oh! the child is not. Most mournful time of all Is when the leaf Fades, withering to its fall, Ending its term so brief, Like him, my joy, my grief, Lost in the senseless grave. The new moons come and go, Stars rise and set, Time’s healing waters flow Across my wound, and yet Grief cannot pay love’s debt;— Love’s solace is to mourn. |
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