No more for him, where woodlands loom,
Shall Midnight bloom
The star-flow’red acres of the blue!
The Midnight Hours, whose dim hands strew
Dead leaves of darkness, hushed and deep,
Upon the grave where he doth sleep.—
No more for him! No more! no more!
IV
The hills, that Morning’s footsteps wake;
The waves that take
A brightness from the Eve; the woods,
The solitudes, o’er which Night broods,
Their Spirits have, whose parts are one
With his, whose mortal part is done.
Whose part is done; alas! is done.
AT LAST
What shall be said to him,
Now he is dead?
Now that his eyes are dim,
Low lies his head?
What shall be said to him,
Now he is dead?
One thing, he knew not of,
Sweet, in his ear
Whisper with all thy love—
Haply he’ll hear.
One thing, he knew not of,
Sweet, in his ear.
What shall be given him,
Now he is dead?
Now that his eyes are dim,
Low lies his head?
What shall be given him,
Now he is dead?
That which was long denied
Here, Sweet,—thy heart
Lay now his heart beside,
Never to part.
That which was long denied
Here, Sweet,—thy heart.
REMEMBERED
Here in the dusk I picture it again,
Her face, as ’twas before she fell asleep:
Renunciation glorifying pain
Of her soul’s inmost deep.