Sonnets

THUS spake his dust (so seemed it as I read
The words): Good friend, for Jesvs’ sake forbeare
(Poor ghost!) To dig the dust enclosèd heart, —
Then came the malediction on the head
Of whoso dare disturb the sacred dead.
Outside the mavis whistled strong and clear,
And, touched with the sweet glamour of the year,
The winding Avon murmured in its bed.
But in the little Stratford church the air
Was chill and dank, and on the foot-worn tomb
The evening shadows deepened momently:
Then a great awe crept on me, standing there,
As if some speechless Presence in the gloom
Was hovering, and fain would speak with me.

HEREWITH I send you three pressed withered flowers:
This one was white, with golden star; this blue
As Capri’s cave; that, purple and shot through
With sunset-orange. Where the Duomo towers
In crystal air, and under pendent bowers
The Arno glides, this faded Violet grew
On Landor’s grave; from Landor’s heart it drew
Its magic azure in the long spring hours.
Within the shadow of the Pyramid
Of Caius Cestius was the Daisy found,
White as the soul of Keats in Paradise.
The Pansy, — there were hundreds of them, hid
In the thick grass that folded Shelley’s mound,
Guarding his ashes with most lovely eyes.