‘Twas the old — road — through pain –
That unfrequented — one –
With many a turn — and thorn –
That stops — at Heaven –
This — was the Town — she passed –
There — where she — rested — last –
Then — stepped more fast –
The little tracks — close prest –
Then — not so swift –
Slow — slow — as feet did weary — grow –
Then — stopped — no other track!
Wait! Look! Her little Book –
The leaf — at love — turned back –
Her very Hat –
And this worn shoe just fits the track –
Herself — though — fled!
Another bed — a short one –
Women make — tonight –
In Chambers bright –
Too out of sight — though –
For our hoarse Good Night –
To touch her Head!
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Where I have lost, I softer tread –
I sow sweet flower from garden bed –
I pause above that vanished head
Whom I have lost, I pious guard
From accent harsh, or ruthless word –
Feeling as if their pillow heard,
When I have lost, you’ll know by this –
A Bonnet black — A dusk surplice –
A little tremor in my voice Like this!
Why, I have lost, the people know
Who dressed in flocks of purest snow
Went home a century ago
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Sexton! My Master’s sleeping here.
Pray lead me to his bed!
I came to build the Bird’s nest,
And sow the Early seed –
That when the snow creeps slowly
From off his chamber door –
Daisies point the way there –
And the Troubadour.
Tags: bed, bird, chamber, daisies, door, master, nest, seed, sexton, sleeping, snow, troubadour