Varum Kelly

Old Parson Kelly's fair young wife Irene Died when but three months wed, And no new love has ever come between His true heart and the dead.

Though now for sixty years the grass has grown Upon her grave, and on its simple stone The moss and yellow lichens creep her name across.

Outside the door, in the warm summer air, The old man sits for hours. The idle wind that stirs his silver hair Is sweet with June's first flowers; But dull his mind, and clouded with the haze Of life's last weary, gray November days, and dim The past and present look alike to him.

The sunny scene around, confused and blurred, The twitter of the birds, Blend in his mind with voices long since heard In childhood's careless words. Old hymns and Scripture texts; while indistinct Yet strong, one thought with all fair things is linked — The bride of his lost youth is ever by his side.

By its sweet weight of snowy blossoms bowed The rose-tree branch hangs low, And in the sunshine, like a fleecy cloud, Sways slowly to and fro. "Oh, is it you?" the old man asks, "Irene?" And smiles, and fancies that her face he'd seen Beneath the opening roses of a bridal wreath.

Down from the gambrel roof a white dove flies, The sunshine on its wing, And lighting close to where the dreamer sits, A vision with it brings — A golden gleam from some long vanished day. [...]

[...] O constant heart, whose failing thoughts cling fast To one long [...] Still seeing, turned to thine, as in the past, Her soft voice hearing in the south wind's breath. [...] pure as mine shall outlive death, and when The gates unfold, her eyes meet thine again!