Poetry Archives

Alone I pace the path we walked last year.
  Dost thou remember it? Then everywhere
  The wheat-fields shimmered in the summer glare,
But now the moonbeams sparkle, silver clear,
On swollen stream and meadows dun and drear,
  While, with the myriad blossoms that they bear,
  The cherry trees perfume the evening air,
And gaunt and cold the ruined house stands near.

The aspens whisper to the passing breeze.
  I hear the night-hawk’s scream, the pipe of frogs,
  The baying of the distant village dogs,
The lapping waves, the rustle of the trees.
  And every sound is musical to me,
  For every sound is a sweet song of thee.