A poem by Samuel Griswold Goodrich

And 'mid the awful stillness
Of their grave,
The forest oaks have flourished
And the breath
Of years hath swept their races,
Wave on wave,
As ages fainted
On the shores of death.
The tumbling cliff perchance
Hath thundered deep,
Like a rough note
Of music in the song
Of centuries, and the whirlwind's
Crushing sweep,
Hath ploughed the forest
With its furrows strong.

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