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on the death of e. p.
The leaf that brightens as it falls,
The wild tones of the Æolian harp,—
All, tell some touching tale of thee:
There 's not a high or holy thought,
There 's not a tender, lovely thing,
But brings thee to my mind;
And faded hopes, and dying joys,
And the vexed spirit's silent strife,
All wake some thought of thee.
O no! thou art not dead, but changed;
From glory unto glory changed:
Corrupt now incorruption wears,
And mortal, immortality.
The wild tones of the Æolian harp,—
All, tell some touching tale of thee:
There 's not a high or holy thought,
There 's not a tender, lovely thing,
But brings thee to my mind;
And faded hopes, and dying joys,
And the vexed spirit's silent strife,
All wake some thought of thee.
O no! thou art not dead, but changed;
From glory unto glory changed:
Corrupt now incorruption wears,
And mortal, immortality.
