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.................................................. मुखपृष्ठ ( होमपेज) ........................................ आमच्याविषयी थोडेसे... ........................................ संपर्क ..................................................

Flowers from a Grave

Sick of the busy haunts of men,
With wand’ring spent and care
I sought a cool and quiet glen,
To find some solace there

Sick of the busy haunts o men,
Thouth I’d be busy there,
Still fortune having play’d me false
And dragg’d me to despair

I sought the clam of solitude
To muse and absent be
From thoughts that on the mind intrude
The hive of world to see.

I brush’d along me grass grown round
And on mound espied
A lowly grave with flowers crown’d
And there at once I hied.

To see the grave so overgrown
With flower – was it a joy ?
I can’t say ‘No’ although I own
A thouch did me annoy –

I thougt – “The heart that slumbers here
Beneath the grave so green
And feeds the bloom of buds so rare,
How sweet it must have been!

“But for the grave the heart that would
In living music breathe,
Should only send a flow’r a bud
Its ashes so enwreathe !”

As thus I mused my heart did send
An echo of the same,
I did my list’ning inward bend,
When from my heart this came:-

“ Ah ! should in me the Poet die,
And die he likely may
If this ill luck would always cry
Against me in my way, -

“ And should I continue to be
How hard to speak it out !
A living tomb of poesy
Far worse than death no doubt;

‘Then from the tomb of song might rise
A few rhymes now and then,
To indicate the spot where lies
The spark Promethean :

“Would, then a passer-by halt there,
And think of me, as I
Now do about the heart that here
Entomb’d for aye doth lie?”

No more my heart its voices gave,
When, O’ercame forth I stept,
And bending over the lowly grave,
I Kiss’d the flowers and wept.

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