In a cool and quiet valley,
Where the echoes ever sleep,
And the brooklet always murmurs
Dreamily its music sweet,
There's an ever mournful willow,
And an ever solemn pine,
And beneath them in the shadows,
Sleeps a treasure once called mine.
There the sunshine's always paler,
And the moonlight's mixed with shade,
For to me 't is ever twilight
In the spot where she is laid.
And the winds sing measured numbers
Through the long and bending grass,
Breathing weird and mystic dirges
For the lost one as they pass.
Low the willow's slender branches
Bend to touch the passing wave,
Scatt'ring oft like fairy fingers
Crystal drops upon the grave.
And the sad-eyed violets hold them
In their blue like a mourner's tear;
While the white-robed lillies watch them
Like a group of angels near.
Clearly twined the myrtle wreath
O'er the spot a pall of green,
And its pale and tender blossoms
Fleck it o'er with azure sheen.
Close the ivy leaves are lying
Softly on the snowy stone,
Veiling from cold eyes the record,
Keeping it for mine alone.
In a far, eternal city
Where the day is ever bright,
Where no pain or sorrow enters,
Where there is no death or night;
There, amid unfading glory
Shall I clasp the form divine
Of the sleeper 'neath the willow,
In the shadow of the pine.
