I mind me that of anguish sent,
Some drifts were moved away
Before my simple bosom broke, —
And why not this, if they?
And so, until delirious borne
I con that thing, — “forgiven,” — Till with long fright and longer trust
I drop my heart, unshriven!
XLI.
THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE.
After a hundred years
Nobody knows the place, —
Agony, that enacted there,
Motionless as peace.
Weeds triumphant ranged,
Strangers strolled and spelled
At the lone orthography
Of the elder dead.
Winds of summer fields
Recollect the way, —
Instinct picking up the key
Dropped by memory.
XLII.
Lay this laurel on the one
Too intrinsic for renown.
Laurel! veil your deathless tree, — Him you chasten, that is he!
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