Chapter XXX

The breeze that o’er that mother’s tomb
Comes idly, as to garden-beds,
Is sober’d by the flowers’ perfume,
And sadness, all around, it sheds.
The very grass it stirs to life,
Doth seem with old remembrance rife,
And every blade instinct, doth move
To wake the tenderness of love.
’Tis then, that as they wave and nod,
And shiver o’er the daisied sod,
They seem, profanely, not to know
The holy head that sleeps below;
And lovely though their petals be,
Their loveliness is agony.