HIS cherished woods are mute. The stream glides down
The hill as when I knew it years ago;
The dark, pine arbor with its priestly gown
Stands hushed, as if our grief it still would show;
The silver springs are cupless, and the flow
Of friendly feet no more bereaves the grass,
For he is absent who was wont to pass
Along this wooded path. His axe’s blow
No more disturbs the impertinent bole or bough;
Nor moves his pen our heedless nation now,
Which, sworn to justice, stirred the people so.
In some far world his much-loved face must glow
With rapture still. This breeze once fanned his brow.
This is the peaceful Mecca all men know!
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Comments
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I'm reading this as a tribute to Horace Greeley - I hope I'm correct.
Obviously heart-felt sentiments, but the flow and diction seem very old-fashioned to me. The rhyme scheme, especially in the final couplet, is different - is this an American sonnet form? -
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It is widely believed that this is indeed a tribute to Greeley.
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a lovely tribute . . liked "its priestly gown" and "This breeze once fanned his brow" . . well done
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Wow.....
This is beautiful, soft melancholy. Reminds me of my first Love, who lived in the woods of Western Michigan.....also reminds me of Thoureau.
Really well written piece. Very glad to have come across it.
Sincerely,
~ Janet ~
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