With her last word the golden door swung free, A blaze of sunshine scattered all the gloom, Sweet music rolled in a voluptuous sea, The radiant air was filled with scent and bloom, And Summer stood, the bravest-hearted groom That ever bride had waited for and won; But Spring lay like an image on a tomb, Her too-short pilgrimage already done, Her blue eyes closed, her latest breath begun:
And as her soul forsook its frail abode, Golden-haired Summer, with a cry of pain, Across the threshold of Time’s palace strode, With tears that fell in showers like to rain, Calling on Spring to come to life again. But tears could not disturb her last repose, And all the calling of his heart was vain. Summer still thinks of Spring--his grief he shows, When golden raindrops fall upon the rose.
God’s wisdom all my spirit fills With faith that puts to flight all doubt, The snow dissolving into rills Refreshing earth from last year’s drought Adown the peeping slopes of hills Carve their increasing channels out, God’s wisdom all my spirit fills With faith that puts to flight all doubt.
The day that stirs, the night that stills; Spring’s masque of flowers; rich summer’s rout; Each wonder, far past finding out, With joy and love my bosom thrills; God’s wisdom all my spirit fills With faith that puts to flight all doubt.
This was the Abbey long years ago When a priest was pious, a lord was brave And a lady repeated her Ave slow With fair eyes fixed on the architrave As she heard a sanctified voice that clave The clear bright air with a holy strain: All have been lost in Time’s great wave-- Only the old grey walls remain.
One arch still stands of all the row That circled the Abbey so tall and brave, These flags as legend would have us know, Are the very stones that used to pave The cloister-walk, when a proud margrave Heard from his hiding a love-talk plain Which he never forgot and never forgave, Only the old grey walls remain.
Here where the nettle and nightshade grow By a nameless stone, is the quiet grave Of a murdered priest;--they laid him low Under the walk of the quiet nave. ’Tis whispered alas! that a dagger gave A stab to the heart that brought no pain; Of all the story that Time could save Only the old grey stones remain.