Subject of the poem by her brother
Lines on Passing the Grave of My Sister by Micah P. Flint
On yonder shore, on yonder shore,
Now verdant with the depths of shade,
Beneath the white-armed sycamore,
There is a little infant laid.
Forgive this tear. — A brother weeps. —
'Tis there the faded floweret sleeps.
[...]
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
Yet yearly is her grave-turf dress'd,
And still the summer vines are thrown,
In annual wreaths, across her breast,
And still the sighing autumn grieves,
And strews the hallowed spot with leaves.
Lines on Passing the Grave of My Sister by Micah P. Flint
On yonder shore, on yonder shore,
Now verdant with the depths of shade,
Beneath the white-armed sycamore,
There is a little infant laid.
Forgive this tear. — A brother weeps. —
'Tis there the faded floweret sleeps.
[...]
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
Yet yearly is her grave-turf dress'd,
And still the summer vines are thrown,
In annual wreaths, across her breast,
And still the sighing autumn grieves,
And strews the hallowed spot with leaves.
Subject of the poem by her brother
Lines on Passing the Grave of My Sister by Micah P. Flint
On yonder shore, on yonder shore,
Now verdant with the depths of shade,
Beneath the white-armed sycamore,
There is a little infant laid.
Forgive this tear. — A brother weeps. —
'Tis there the faded floweret sleeps.
[...]
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
Yet yearly is her grave-turf dress'd,
And still the summer vines are thrown,
In annual wreaths, across her breast,
And still the sighing autumn grieves,
And strews the hallowed spot with leaves.
Lines on Passing the Grave of My Sister by Micah P. Flint
On yonder shore, on yonder shore,
Now verdant with the depths of shade,
Beneath the white-armed sycamore,
There is a little infant laid.
Forgive this tear. — A brother weeps. —
'Tis there the faded floweret sleeps.
[...]
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
Yet yearly is her grave-turf dress'd,
And still the summer vines are thrown,
In annual wreaths, across her breast,
And still the sighing autumn grieves,
And strews the hallowed spot with leaves.
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