Where soft wreaths of mist are curling
Round by nail and ruined stone --
Where wild gusts of Night are whirling
Brown leaves, scattered wide and blown
O'er the graves of silent sleepers,
Kneeling weary and alone;--
Hating now with Hate's own essence,
Wedding ring and binding vow;
Loathing, too, his very presence,
Bound with gilded fetters now;
Thro' the elm tree and the cypress,
Loud the breezes sob and sough.
Oh! to clasp your hand, my true love,
Just a long look at your face!
There is neither old nor new love
That could ever take your place.
Tho' your voice is hushed for ever
And the grass grows o'er your face.
Many seasons, many changes
Rise and gather, fade and fall;
But my heart ne'er roams or ranges
From the truest love of all,
Tho' the years have bound me closely
Prisoned in a hateful thrall.
Only here in God's Own Acre
Where the silent sleepers rest,
I may pray to God, my Maker,
In the regions of the Blest,
To forgive my sins and follies
While the moon sinks in the west.
And before the gray of morning,
Just to set my spirit free
From all the weariness and scorning,
And, throughout Eternity,
Just to dream the old dream over,
As in days of used-to-be.
Where the wreaths of mist are curling,
Where the silent sleepers lie,
Where the wild night winds are whirling
'Neath the dripping winter sky,
In the close of God's own acre
Maybe He will hear my cry.
First published in The Bulletin, 23 May 1903
