I Cannot Forget Thee!

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O, rarer than roses and sweeter than dew,

More brilliant than sunshine that sparkles through blue,

The deep blue of noontide whose fires are alight

And gleam through the haze like the soul of delight.

And softer than breathings that come with the spring –

When the lark is abroad on her silvery wing –

Like music at even when twilight is near

With rhythmical soothing’s attune on the ear.

Or the voice of far waves in the silence of night,

When moonbeams are falling in crystalline light,

And the radiance of heaven o’er mountain and lea

Is reflecting the beauty of river and sea.

Yes, sweeter and brighter and fairer than these

Like the low, fragrant whisper of sun-scented trees

Is the light of affection that beams from the eye

As pure as the gleams, from the star-spangled sky.

For love can live always not knowing decay

Through the midnight of gloom or the glories of day

Where the buried lie sleeping beneath the green sod

Love still keeps high vigil from the mansions of God.

By E. D. Hundley

Affectionately inscribed to my Love.

 I'm assuming this poem was written in her grief when missing her husband, Richard Hundley.  Sometime after his death in 1871, she moved to Greensboro, North Carolina to live with her daughter, Nannie Lee Shober. 

This photo was taken in a rose garden at Tanglewood Park, North Carolina. 

Oh! turn away those lustrous eyes-

     Those soft, dark eyes of thine.

They beam upon me like the light

     Of something too devine;

Too bright and pure for this dull earth,

     Too full of heavenly rays.

Ah! would their beams had only shone

     Around my earlier days!

But now, alas! but care and pain

      Find refuge on my breast.

Oh, would those eyes for me could shine!

      They'd sooth my soul's unrest;

But Sorrow o'er my roof-tree now,

      Doth hang his blacksome wing;

And dark and dreary nature seems,

      Although 'tis blooming spring.

For 'tis the heart - the heart alone,

      That makes the seasons bright,

For when we are gay, 'tis joyous day,

      Though others call it night.

But when we are sad, all nature mourns -

      The sunlight seems but dim;

And every birdlet's gentle song,

      Sound like a funeral hymn.

Those eyes! those eyes! those lustrous eyes -

      Oh, let me shun their light.

Yes! let me hasten far away,

      To scenes less fair and bright;

For oh! I cannot bear their beams,

      So sweet, so soft, so mild,

They melt my heart I thought so strong,

      And make me but a child.  

By Nannie Grey

For The Enquirer.

Picture:   
https://images.pexels.com/photos/160515/child-look-innocence-childhood-160515.jpeg 

I want to die in the autumn

When the roses are late in bloom,

When the skies are serene and pensive,

Sad, but devoid of gloom;

When the morning mists on the hilltops,

Hang soft ere the day is begun,

And the sparkle of dew, in the meadows,

Is waiting the coming sun.

When the streams are bright and pellucid,

Glimmering in sunshine and shade,

Singing a song of departure

To the flowers, in the silvery glade,

When the world lies in mystical glamour,

In a rose-light of tinting so fair,

Where the leaves of the forest are golden

In the kiss of the early frost air.

Or better, to die when the sunset

Lies crimson on all the hills,

And the bright  "glory of his going”

All earth and ocean fills,

When the silver stars of evening

Hang o’er the mounts of Time,

Let my soul escape to Heaven,

Beyond the heights, sublime.

And then some day, when sunrise

Bathes all the earth anew,

When the fragrant breeze is floating

And the skies are soft and blue,

Pray, lay me by my darling, 

Where the “Green Hill”* grasses grow,

To sleep ‘till the resurrection

While the ages come and go.

Then plant some blushing roses,

Sweet roses, white and red,

To bloom in autumn beauty

Where night’s soft tears are shed,

And oh! Dear loved and living,

Remember when e’er you sigh,

We are waiting by the “golden gate,”

To meet you in the sky.

E. D. Hundley

Greensboro, North Carolina

October 1895

*Green Hill Cemetery in Greensboro is the burial place of many 

of her friends and relatives. The family plot is in Section 2.

Written for The Record.

Picture:

https://www.pexels.com/photo/nature-red-forest-leaves-33109/

I hear the sweet bells ringing

That call to the house of prayer

The softened chimes, melodious

Rising up through the azure air.

Perhaps the angels are bending

From the beautiful fields above

And Heaven, itself, descending

In a wonderful token of love.

My heart goes out with this chiming

As I see the worshipful throng

Go by, with faces toward Zion

To praise Him, in glorious song

And I hear the peal of the organ

As it throbs to the courts above

And I see the preached, enraptured

Like St. Luke, in the picture of Love.

‘Tis only a bright recollection

That floats from days gone by,

When I joined in the sacred chorus

In praise of the Host on high.

But now, I sit by my window

And sing with the birds and trees

As I watch God’s sunshine and shadow,

That come with the odorous breeze.

He knows, from the depth of my spirit,

How many petitions arise – 

He sees, in the loneliest chamber

With a Father’s beneficent eyes.

He pardons, the “not re-assembling,” 

He watches, with infinite love,

As the seraphs, in dim, golden censers,

Bear the burden of sorrow, above.

I will curb this rebellious spirit

And wait for His own good time,

Contented, in patience to linger,

Till I hear the musical chime

From across the wonderful river

That encircles the boundries, sublime.

Though my soul be filled with longing

I’ll be still by the pearly gate,

For I know He has said, “They serve Him

Who only stand and wait.”

Ellen Dowdell Hundley

January 18, 1903 

Affectionately dedicated to Dr. Egbert W. Smith, as an explanation and apology.

       “In recent years she has borne the burden of physical infirmity and pain, a sore trial it was to one of her active spirit to be laid aside, and to be debarred in recent months even from reading, which had always been to her a chief joy and solace of life.”  

Dr. Egbert W. Smith

(Her Pastor)

Picture:

https://www.pexels.com/photo/autumn-autumn-leaves-church-countryside-460405/

Oh! bury me in the wild woods,

      Where the birds unfettered sing,

And where in rich luxuriance,

      The untrained flowerets spring.

There let me sleep in silence,

      By the blue stream's rippling tide.

Whose bright and sparkling waters,

      In circling wavelets glide.

Then make me a soft and grassy grave,

      Afar from the busy throng,

Where naught is heard but the murmuring wave,

      And the gush of the wild bird's song:

Where the orient beams of morning,

      May rest first upon my bed,

And where the willow's weeping shadow

      Bends above my sleeping head.

Where the twilight shades fall soonest,

      And the bright stars first appear,

As gleaming through the forest,

      They shine so pure and clear.

Where the wings may sing a requiem,

      In the lonely autumn hours,

When bending with the rain drops,

      Droops low the summer flowers.

And even there in winter

      The snow shall softly fall,

And cover o'er my resting place,

      With a pure white funeral pall.

Then I would sleep in the wild wood,

      Alone but not forgot,

For I know kind feet will often stray

      To that green and lonely spot. 

Nannie Grey

 For the Richmond Times