Poetry Archives

San Remo’s palms in beauty stand
  Beside the storied sea,
Where azure band and golden sand
  Are wedded ceaselessly;
For from the deep, which seems to sleep,
  The slow waves, long and low,
Their journeys done, break one by one
  In rhythmic ebb and flow.

Before me lies a fair retreat,
  Whose every breath brings balm
From plants replete with odors sweet
  And many a fronded palm;
Hence at its gate I, spellbound, wait
  To feast my gladdened eyes
On buds that wake and flowers that make
  A perfumed paradise.

Alas, that love could not avail
  To guard this sweet repose!
That strength should fail, and life prove frail
  And fleeting as the rose!
So fair! and yet, who can forget
  The heir to Prussia’s throne,
Who here fought death with labored breath,
  And faced the great Unknown?

O Spirit of the Fatherland,
  O love that changeth not,
Thy filial hand hath made this strand
  A consecrated spot;
For on the wall, where roses fall,
  Bronze words recall his fate,—
A sceptre won … when life was done,
  An empire gained … too late!

“Halt, wanderer from a German shore!”
  (Thus runs the sad refrain,)
“Here dwelt thine Emperor, here he bore
  With fortitude his pain;
Hear’st thou the lone, low monotone
  Of billows tempest-tossed?
In that long roll the German soul
  Still mourns for him she lost.”

San Remo’s stately palms still rise
  Beside the storied shore;
But he now lies ’neath northern skies,
  At peace forevermore,
In that calm, deep, untroubled sleep,
  Whose secret none may know,
While, one by one,—their courses run,—
  The long waves ebb and flow.