Should feel on my face, did they fall, his remorseful tears;
That his voice, if loving,—no matter how long since I died—
Would waken my heart from the silent sleep of years.
But loveless, lonely dreamer, who will not be comforted;
Of what avail is it to murmur, to moan, or to cry;
The peacefulest rest, I think, is the sleep of the dead,
When the day is past, and the darkness is over the sky.
