For surely this pale bough, with hoary leaf,
Is symbol of one still thought that is ours
After the fire of grief:
Thought not unhappy, fruitful thought, that showers
A lustral rain of gentle tears and pure,
Breaking the spell of Death, that else were sure
To chain our living powers,
To lock Joy fettered in the frozen breast:
The one calm thought, the peaceful thought, They rest.
They rest: brief rest was theirs