ANTIPHONAL.
When I am gone the stones will talk of me,
The elm-trees speak together in the blast, as now,
And weep that I shall never more return;
And, be it that the dust shall grasp the throat of prayer, and strangle it,
My hands, white-rising from the earth,
Will try again to sweep the lyre of song,
And quench the voice of death above my grave;
The day star in its flight will answer me.