Poems (Trask)/In Ruin

by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

IN RUIN.

It stands there on the green hillside,
Covered with roses like a bride;
And round its chimneys tall elm-trees
Whisper their vows, and shake their leaves,—
A low brown house, with windows tall,
And gables where quaint shadows fall.

The lily blooms, and mottled pinks
Crowd round the ruined fountain's brinks,
Kissing decay with crimson lips,—
Putting the gloom in gay eclipse;
But no fair hands of happy girls
Gather the flowers to deck their curls.

I cross the sill, and sit me down
Upon the doorstep bare and brown;
I call aloud,—a gentle word,—
Name of a sweet-voiced singing-bird:
Where dwells she now? What regions hold
Her, with her hair of living gold?

I call, and listen; empty sounds,
From empty halls and empty grounds,
Grate on the air, and fright the ears
Like tones the pale death-watcher hears,
And the red robin, with a cry,
Flies startled up against the sky.

Three tombstones out 'neath yonder tree,—
One coral grave deep in the sea,—
A nameless mound in Indian lands!
Oh, sleep of heart! oh, rest of hands!
Oh, winter's rest, where Death is king,
Waiting the resurrection Spring!