A second time did Matthew stop; And fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top, To me he made reply:
’Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this which I have left Full thirty years behind.
’And just above yon slope of corn Such colours, and no other, Were in the sky, that April morn, Of this the very brother.
’With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And, to the church-yard come, stopped short Beside my daughter’s grave.
’Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sang;—she would have been A very nightingale.
’Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more, For so it seemed, than till that day I e’er had loved before.
’And, turning from her grave, I met, Beside the church-yard yew, A blooming girl, whose hair was wet With points of morning dew.
’A basket on her head she bare; Her brow was smooth and white: To see a child so very fair It was a pure delight!
’No fountain from its rocky cave E’er tripped with foot so free; She seemed as happy as a wave That dances on the sea.