And 'mid the awful stillness
Of their grave,
The forest oaks have flourished-
And the breath
Of years hath swept their races,
Wave on wave,
As ages fainted
On the shores of death.
The tumbling cliff perchance
Hath thundered deep,
Like a rough note
Of music in the song
Of centuries, and the whirlwind's
Crushing sweep,
Hath ploughed the forest
With its furrows strong.
Poems Epigram
Sam G. Goodrich
(1)
Poem topics: breath, death, music, song, deep, strong, grave, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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