Poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

At Stratford-upon-Avon

THUS spake his dust (so seemed it as I read
The words): Good frend for Jesvs’ sake forbeare
(Poor ghost!) To digg the dvst enclosed heare,—
Then came the malediction on the head
Of who so dare disturb the sacred dead.
Outside the mavis whistled strong and clear,
And, touched with the sweet glamour of the year,
The winding Avon murmured in its bed.
But in the little Stratford church the air
Was chill and dank, and on the foot-worn tomb
The evening shadows deepened momently:
Then a great awe crept on me, standing there,
As if some speechless Presence in the gloom
Was hovering, and fain would speak with me.

1. Latakia
2. A Petition
3. At the Funeral of a Minor Poet
4. At a Reading
5. Alec Yeaton's Son

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