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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117567" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Forest Vine</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It grew in the old wilderness—The vine<br>Is linked with thoughts of sunny Italy,<br>Or the fair hills of France, or the sweet vales<br>Where flows the Guadalquivir. But this grew<br>Where, as the sunlight look'd through lacing boughs,<br>The shadows of the stern, tall, primal wood<br>Fell round us, and across the silent flood,<br>That wash'd the deep ravine. The pauseless lapse<br>Of ages had beheld no change in all<br>The aspect of that scene; or but such change,<br>As Time himself had made; the slow decay<br>Of the old patriarch oaks, and as they fell<br>And moulder'd on the earth, the silent growth<br>Of the young sturdy stem, that rear'd itself<br>To stretch its branches in their former place.<br>The wild flower stretch'd its tender petals out,<br>Lending strange brightness to the forest gloom;<br>The fleet deer toss'd his antlers to the breeze,<br>Graceful and shy; and when the sun went down,<br>The tangled thicket rustled to the tread<br>Of the gaunt wolf—just as in former years.<br>But the red hunter was no longer there;<br>And the bright flowers were no more twined to deck<br>The brow of Indian maid.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We stood beside<br>A fallen oak; its aged limbs were spread<br>Prone to the earth, uptorn by the rude wind,<br>And perishing on the soil that once had fed<br>Their giant strength: clinging around its roots<br>And its decaying trunk, a grape-vine wreathed<br>Its fresh green foliage, draping the still grave<br>With its luxuriance—meet garniture<br>For such a sepulchre! a sepulchre most meet<br>To wrap the bones of the old forest race!<br>For we had checked our idle wanderings<br>To gaze upon the relics of the dead—<br>The dead of other ages! they who trod<br>When that fallen tree was fresh in its green prime,—<br>The earth that it now cumber'd; they who once<br>In savage freedom bounded through the wild,<br>And quaff'd the limpid spring, or shot along<br>The swift canoe upon yon rushing wave,<br>Or yell'd the fierce and horrid war whoop round,<br>Or gather'd to the council fire, or sprang<br>With proud firm step to mingle in the dance,<br>And vaunt of their own triumphs;—there they lie,<br>Brittle and time-blanch'd fragments! bones—dry bones!<br>Prison'd for lingering years beneath the sod,<br>And now that the strong wind hath torn away<br>The bars of their dark cell, restored again<br>To the clear sunshine. It seems strange to think<br>That those wan relics once were clothed with life—<br>Breathing and living flesh—and sprang away<br>O'er the green hills at morning, and at eve,<br>Return'd again to the low cabin home,<br>And found its shadows happiness.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That dust—<br>Gather some to thee—the keen eye can mark<br>No difference from that spread widely round—<br>The common earth we tread upon; yet this<br>Once help'd to form the garment of a mind<br>Once wrapp'd a human heart, and thrill'd with all<br>The emotions of man's nature; love and hate,<br>Sweet hope and stern revenge—ay, even faith<br>In an undying world.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So let them rest!<br>That faith, erring and dark as it might be,<br>Was yet not wholly vain. We may not know<br>Of what the dark grave hideth; but the soul,<br>Immortal as eternity itself,<br>Is in the hands of One most merciful.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Elizabeth+Margaret+Chandler">Elizabeth Margaret Chandler</a> from <i>Poetical Works</i><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117567" data-title="The Forest Vine de Elizabeth Margaret Chandler" data-description="It grew in the old wilderness—The vine/Is linked with thoughts of sunny Italy,/Or the fair hills of France, or the sweet vales/Where flows the Guadalquivir. But this grew/Where, as the sunlight look'd through lacing boughs,/The shadows of the st..."></div>
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