Poetry Archives

And ’mid the awful stillness
  Of their grave,
The forest oaks have flourished—
  And the breath
Of years hath swept their races,
  Wave on wave,
As ages fainted
  On the shores of death.
The tumbling cliff perchance
  Hath thundered deep,
Like a rough note
  Of music in the song
Of centuries, and the whirlwind’s
  Crushing sweep,
Hath ploughed the forest
  With its furrows strong.