Upon the season’s sultry breeze
the lilac wastes her perfumed breath,
while sunlight streams through trembling trees
to light the land of midnight death.
Sad swallows sigh upon the wing,
with swift and song thrush singing soft;
the eagle, on his throne, as king
above the clouds soars safe aloft.
And I, a mortal, dare to dream,
although I’m quintessential clay;
beneath the sky, in vain, I scheme
to conjure one who went away.
I whisper, “Father, where are you
on this sad, soulless winter’s day?
Your bones are cold and steely blue;
does soul somewhere still pine away?”
And by his long-neglected grave
I stand, all statuesque, and stare,
as grief, a gracious God has gave
pours from my heart like pilgrim’s prayer.