Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > An American Anthology, 1787–1900
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Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  An American Anthology, 1787–1900.  1900.
 
441. Amy
 
By James Matthew Legaré
 
 
THIS is the pathway where she walked,
  The tender grass pressed by her feet.
The laurel boughs laced overhead,
    Shut out the noonday heat.
 
The sunshine gladly stole between        5
  The softly undulating limbs.
From every blade and leaf arose
    The myriad insect hymns.
 
A brook ran murmuring beneath
  The grateful twilight of the trees,        10
Where from the dripping pebbles swelled
    A beech’s mossy knees.
 
And there her robe of spotless white,
  (Pure white such purity beseemed!)
Her angel face, and tresses bright        15
    Within the basin gleamed.
 
The coy sweetbriers half detained
  Her light hem as we moved along!
To hear the music of her voice
    The mockbird hushed his song.        20
 
But now her little feet are still,
  Her lips the Everlasting seal;
The hideous secrets of the grave
    The weeping eyes reveal.
 
The path still winds, the brook descends,        25
  The skies are bright as then they were.
My Amy is the only leaf
    In all that forest sear.
 

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