Lines in the State Cemetery at Frankfort

A softly hollowed hand of purpling hills
Holds fields and river, bridge and dreaming town
While from these heights, the quiet gaze down
Unseeing; the sun its amber wine outspills
Behind the swift cloud racks till the woodland thrills
With golden light, that drips from leaf to leaf,
To spend itself on mellowing fruit and sheaf,
And blossoms mirrored in slow, sleeping rills.

The touch of mist soothes all the land to peace.
Bright maple trees bum low, and roof and spire.
Where trees usurp, and flower-starred meadows cease.
Catch from a passing beam elusive fire,
Then smolder dully red ; while sweet and near
A bird's delicious rapture charms the ear.

So fair the scene, so peaceful the estate
Of calm majestic death, one scarce would deem
Aught else than figments of a fevered dream.
The noise of contest or of stern debate;
Yet do the fathers of a sovereign State
Pass yonder pillared threshold o'er, while still
The marble victory builded on this hill
Calls over out upon them to the great.

Shall she lack heroes who hath need of such
For crown and guerdon? In her outstretched hand
The laurel wreath still asks the vital touch
Of living brows; who joins her stainless band
Is one for aye with those of deathless name
Who made their sacred quest Kentucky's fame.