Unforgotten

I know not why, but o’er my heart is stealing,
            This soft May morn, a yearning thought of thee,
Of the green sod where I would fain be kneeling
            The lowly grave beneath the church-yard tree.

I know how soft the low-toned winds are sighing,
            Along the hills, and through the green wood aisles;
How light and shade across the vale are flying
            Bathing the landscape in their dreamy wiles.

And dewy pearls hang in the silver netting,
            The cunning spider o’er thy couch hath spread,
While the pure lily, thy young life regretting,
            Bends, a pale mourner, o’er thy lowly head.

And in the rose tree is a busy humming,
            That speaks the presence of the honey-bee;
While fairest birds from dim wood haunts are coming,
            To sing their hymns of gladness over thee.

And thou wilt hear them not—though round thee beaming
            Are spread the offerings of the early year;
Though rose and violet in the light are gleaming,
            Reclaimed unscattered from Winter’s frozen bier.

Still thou must sleep—no more, nor more returning,
            Unto a world with joy and beauty rife;
Yet sad and lonely when the heart is yearning
            To meet the loved ones, who have fled from life.

Ay, sad and lonely—when the Spring is brightest,
            And sunshine lingers upon hill and tree,
When flowers are blooming, and when songs are lightest,
            Then do we mourn, then do we think on thee.

Then doth the spirit, time, and space unheeding,
            Turn to the spot where thou are laid to rest,
To thy lone grave, in grief and darkness, pleading
            For strength to soothe the lonely heart’s unrest.