IN THE GRAVEYARD.
The sweetness dropped from the cherry-blooms
Over the sleep that is never stirred,
And the twilight drooped on her purple plumes,
And fluttered and moaned, like a dying bird,
Till I hid my face in the scented glooms.
Over the sleep that is never stirred,
And the twilight drooped on her purple plumes,
And fluttered and moaned, like a dying bird,
Till I hid my face in the scented glooms.
The grasses were damp where the thorns had grown;
The bats flew close to the mouldering staves;
Some wild, white buds, with a windy moan,
Fell with their faces against the graves,
And the moss-veils hung on the broken stone.
The bats flew close to the mouldering staves;
Some wild, white buds, with a windy moan,
Fell with their faces against the graves,
And the moss-veils hung on the broken stone.
Out of the dim and dusky sky
A golden blossoming broke ere long,
And glittered and fell on the spring-woods nigh,
Where a dove was hushing her sleepy song;
And we were together, the dead and I.
A golden blossoming broke ere long,
And glittered and fell on the spring-woods nigh,
Where a dove was hushing her sleepy song;
And we were together, the dead and I.
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