Your lips are dumb, and with a feeble hand
You turn the pages of the year’s great book,
While my wet cheeks are with an odor fanned,
Like that the summer breeze from violets shook.
I gaze into the volume. Undiscerned
Some scenes advance, like phantoms hurry by,
And thoughts look from the leaves now swifter turned
As meaningless as would a stranger’s eye.
I meet familiar names in Death’s long list,
I pass new graves where tears have thawed the snows,