The iron-clad sea, into which
Flowering lights heave themselves,
Murmurs unitelligble prayers
For the land veiled in roseate mist
Of the sunset. Hilltops in joyful
blossom welcome the flowering king;
The usurper of the night, Spring!
And thereupon the hillside, laying
In cold shade, meek and alone;
Forever young is the church on
Yon hill; an alter of a memory,
A spirit woefully unmourned by
By moon an\' sun. This solemn
Martyr, mute in its suffering an\'
Peaceful in its sleep, welcomes
The Spring leaves which crown
It in manifold shades of greene.
Brass bell stilled, ever mute,
Rotten the cross; the altar desecrated,
Blanketed in vengeful moss.
The walls echo prayer still;
The funeral choir sings, lulls
The living, calms the dead,
And ever-young blossoms
Spring, lays the church upon
Its flower-bed; kisses it with
Starlit rain, caresses it with
Luke-warm winds - golden
Light shines upon the bell,
And, for a moment, a chime
Echoes the forest...