Seven long years has the desert rain Dropped on the clods that hide thy face;Seven long years of sorrow and pain I have thought of thy burial-place.
Thought of thy fate in the distant west, Dying with none that loved thee near;They who flung the earth on thy breast Turned from the spot williout a tear.
There, I think, on that lonely grave, Violets spring in the soft May shower;There, in the summer breezes, wave Crimson phlox and moccasin flower.
There the turtles alight, and there Feeds with her fawn the timid doe;There, when the winter woods are bare, Walks the wolf on the crackling snow.
Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away; All my task upon earth is done;My poor father, old and gray, Slumbers beneath the churchyard stone.
In the dreams of my lonely bed, Ever thy form before me seems;All night long I talk with the dead, All day long I think of my dreams.
This deep wound that bleeds and aches, This long pain, a sleepless pain--When the Father my spirit takes, I shall feel it no more again.