II.

The children of the fathers sleep Beneath the melancholy pines; Earth-worms within grim skulls forever creep And the glow-worm shines; The orchards in the meadow deep Lift up their stained, gnarled arms, Mossed, lichened where limp lizards peep. No youth swells up to make them leap And cry against the storms; No blossom lulls their age asleep, Each wind brings sad alarms. Big-bellied apples gold or bell-round pears No maiden gathers now; The moistures drip great reeking tears From each old, crippled bough.