AFAR out West, a thousand miles,
I own a spot of ground,
On which, last year, with trembling hands,
I raised a little mound.
A robin, with her fledgeling brood,
Was singing then hard by:
That robin, with her fledgeling brood,
Was happier far than I.
The leaves have fallen on that mound,
The snows have bound it fast,
And, howling through the trees o'erhead,
Have gusts of winter passed.
But now the Winter's icy bands
Are severed by the Spring,
And round that lonely mound again
The robins come to sing.
How has the little tenant passed
The autumn there alone?—
The long, cold, dismal winter nights
That since have come and gone.
He could not bear to leave me once,
Not even for a day;
He grieved and pined in loneliness
Whene'er I was away.
But now he lies untended there,
Nor murmurs from his bed;
And down in mold and darkness keeps
The watches of the dead.
We draped him for his final rest,
'Mid sobs, and tears, and sighs;
We combed his hair, and tenderly
We closed his precious eyes.
Do rose and violet keep their place
Through all these wasting hours?
And does his little moldering hand
Still clasp its withered flowers?
With such endearing cares we sought
The cruel grave to cheat
Of half its horrors; even his toys
Were buried at his feet.
How vain the thought to placate Death
With cheerful funeral rite!
I have a funeral in my heart;
I bury him each night.
The grief each idle passer-by
Prejudged would soon depart,
Is gnawing deep and deeper still
Into my withered heart.
And in my agony, I turn
To that far spot of ground,
Where all my earthly hopes lie dead,
Within the little mound.