BAY COMBE
Where she was flung, above, beneath,
By the rude dance of life and death,
Grow she at Gotham—die at Rome,
Between the pine trees is her home.
In some strange town, some silver morn,
She may have wandered to be born;
Stopped at some motley crowd impressed,
And called them kinsfolk for a jest.
If we again in goodness thrive,
And the dead saints become alive,
Then pedants bald and parchments brown
May claim her blood for London town.
But leaves below and leaves above,
And groping under tree and tree,
I found the home of my true love,
Who is a wandering home for me.
The great gravestone she may pass by,
And without noticing, may die;
The streets of silver Heaven may tread,
With her grey awful eyes unfed.
The city of great peace in pain
May pass, until she find again
This little house of holm and fir
God built before the stars for her.
