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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=567000" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ode On A Lycian Tomb</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I </div><div style="margin:10px 0">WHAT gracious nunnery of grief is here! <br>One woman garbed in sorrow's every mood; <br>Each sad presentment celled apart, in fear <br>Lest that herself upon herself intrude <br>And break some tender dream of sorrow's day, <br>Here cloistered lonely, set in marble gray. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, pale procession of immortal love <br>Forever married to immortal grief! <br>All life's high-passioned sorrow far above, <br>Past help of time's compassionate relief: <br>These changeless stones are treasuries of regret <br>And mock the term by time for sorrow set. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah me! What tired hearts have hither come <br>To weep with thee, and give thy grief a voice; <br>And such as have not added to life's sum <br>The count of loss, they who do still rejoice <br>In love which time yet leaveth unassailed, <br>Here tremble, by prophetic sadness paled. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou who hast wept for many, weep for me, <br>For surely I, who deepest grief have known, <br>Share thy stilled sadness, which must ever be <br>Too changeless, and unending like my own, <br>Since thine is woe that knows not time's release, <br>And sorrow that can never compass peace. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He too who wrought this antique poetry, <br>Which wakes sad rhythms in the human heart, <br>Must oft with thee have wondered silently, <br>Touched by the strange revealments of his art, <br>When at his side you watched the chisel's grace <br>Foretell what time would carve upon thy face. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">If to thy yearning silence, which in vain <br>Suggests its speechless plea in marbles old, <br>We add the anguish of an equal pain, <br>Shall not the sorrow of these statues cold <br>Inherit memories of our tears, and keep <br>Record of grief long time in death asleep? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah me! In death asleep; how pitiful, <br>If, in that timeless time the soul should wake <br>To wander heart-blind where no years may dull <br>Remembrance, with a heart forbid to break. <br>—Dove of my home, that fled life's stranded ark, <br>The sea of death is shelterless and dark— </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cold mourner set in stone so long ago, <br>Too much my thoughts have dwelt with thee apart; <br>Again my grief is young: full well I know <br>The pang re-born, that mocked my feeble art <br>With that too human wail in pain expressed, <br>The parent cry above the empty nest! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come back, I cried. 'I may not come again. <br>Not islandless is this uncharted sea; <br>Here is no death, nor any creature's pain, <br>Nor any terror of what is to be. <br>'T is but to trust one pilot; soon are seen <br>The sunlit peaks of thought and peace serene.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">II </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fair worshipper of many gods, whom I <br>In one God worship, very surely He <br>Will for thy tears and mine have some reply, <br>When death assumes the trust of life, and we <br>Hear once again the voices of our dead, <br>And on a newer earth contented tread. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Doubtless for thee thy Lycian fields were sweet, <br>Thy dream of heaven no wiser than my own; <br>Nature and love, the sound of children's feet, <br>Home, husbands, friends; what better hast thou known? <br>What of the gods could ask thy longing prayer <br>Except again this earth and love to share? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For all in vain with vexed imaginings, <br>We build of dreams another earth than ours, <br>And high in thought's thinned atmosphere, with wings <br>That helpless beat, and mock our futile powers, <br>Falter and flutter, seeing naught above, <br>And naught below except the earth we love. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Enough it were to find our own old earth <br>With death's dark riddle answered, and unspoiled <br>By fear, or sin, or pain; where joy and mirth <br>Have no sad shadows, and love is not foiled, <br>And where, companioned by the mighty dead, <br>The dateless books of time and fate are read. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">III </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What stately melancholy doth possess <br>This innocent marble with eternal doom! <br>What most imperious grief doth here oppress <br>The one sad soul which haunts this peopled tomb <br>In many forms that all these years have worn <br>One thought, for time's long comment more forlorn! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lo grief, through love instinct with silentness, <br>Reluctant, in these marbles eloquent, <br>The ancient tale of loss doth here confess <br>The first confusing, mad bewilderment, <br>Life's unbelief in death, in love fore-spent, <br>Thought without issue, child-like discontent. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Time, that for thee awhile did moveless seem, <br>Again his glass hath turned: I see thee stand <br>Thought-netted, or, like one who in a dream <br>Self-wildered, in some alien forest land <br>Lone-wandering, in endless mazes lost, <br>Wearily stumbles over tracks re-crossed. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oft didst thou come in after days to leave <br>Roses and laurel on thy warrior's grave, <br>And with thy marble self again to grieve, <br>Glad of what genius unto sorrow gave, <br>Interpreting what had been and would be, <br>Love, tears, despair, attained serenity. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are whom sorrow leaves full-wrecked. The great <br>Grow in the urgent anguish of defeat, <br>And with mysterious confidence await <br>The silent coming of the bearer's feet; <br>Wherefore this quiet face so proudly set <br>To front life's duties, but naught to forget. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For life is but a tender instrument <br>Whereon the master hand of grief doth fall, <br>Leaving love's vibrant tissue resonant <br>With echoes, ever waking at the call <br>Of every kindred tone: so grief doth change <br>The instrument o'er which his fateful fingers range.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Silas+Weir+Mitchell">Silas Weir Mitchell</a><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=567000" data-title="Ode On A Lycian Tomb de Silas Weir Mitchell" data-description="I 

WHAT gracious nunnery of grief is here! 
One woman garbed in sorrow's every mood; 
Each sad presentment celled apart, in fear 
Lest that herself upon herself intrude 
And break some tender dream of sorrow's day, 
Here cloistered lonely, set in..."></div>
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