Content thee, not with pity;
Be solaced, not with tears;
But when the whitethroats waken
Through the revolving years,
Hereafter be that peerless
And dirging cadence, child,
Thy threnody unsullied,
Melodious, and wild.
Then winter be thy housing,
Thy lullaby the rain,
Thou hero of no battle,
Thou saint without a stain.
IN THE HEART OF THE HILLS
In the warm blue heart of the hills
My beautiful, beautiful one
Sleeps where he laid him down
Before the journey was done.
All the long summer day
The ghosts of noon draw nigh,
And the tremulous aspens hear
The footing of winds go by.
Down to the gates of the sea,
Out of the gates of the west,
Journeys the whispering river
Before the place of his rest.
The road he loved to follow
When June came by his door,
Out through the dim blue haze
Leads, but allures no more.
The trailing shadows of clouds
Steal from the slopes and are gone;
The myriad life in the grass
Stirs, but he slumbers on;