Poems (Prescott)/Forgetfulness

by Mary Newmarch Prescott

FORGETFULNESS

She died full twenty years ago;
 Her lover drew his breath to weep;
Her grave is overgrown. And so
 He giveth His beloved sleep.

The marble slab in ruin lies:
 The mound has sunken year by year;
But one to her are smiles or sighs,
 Or steps that linger near.

Neglected died the sweet-brier rose
 Her lover set, with eyes still wet,
Forgotten like his early woes,
 Untended by regret.

The seasons wax, the seasons wane,
 She does not mark their constant flow;
Nor sun, nor snow, nor summer rain
 Delights the heart below.

The noises from the village street,
 The stir about the homes beneath,
Come borne unto her still retreat
 By winds that idly breathe.

She has no part in anything
 That makes the pulses thrill and beat,
No part in what the days may bring
 Of bitter or of sweet.

Long since her lover lost his way
 To that green mound where roses grew
Long since he wiped his tears away,
 And ceased to make ado.

But still the wild-flowers tangle there
 Among the ferns that grow knee-deep;
The bird builds and the bees hum where
 He giveth His beloved sleep.