To the Grave

Insatiate Grave! thou hast not left me one ,
One gentle relative to soften woe!
Here, wrapt in fable robe I sit alone , —
Here, from my heart the floods of anguish flow.

All the rich treasures of my early years
Beneath thy murky portals mould'ring lie;
While I , disconsolate, with fruitless tears,
To thee complain, who broke each tender tie.

No hand is left to guide my lonely way, —
No voice to give my aching soul relief:
My mother now, here rests her sacred clay,
No more can soothe me, — oh! heart-rending grief!

Insatiate Grave! let me with her repose, —
Then o'er the last , — o'er in silence close.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.