Enough of grief has dimmed thy sky-ward eye;
We come to pour the fragrant oil and wine;
We come to bless, and be blest, ere we die.
Die? No! We take from thee an angel-wing;
We fly—we mount—away from earth we soar;
Keep thy gaze upward from the mountain-spring,
Wrapt in white mist-robes we move on before.
Or if despair thy strong-heart will assail,
Beneath the oaks, in the old wind-flower grove,
We light to kiss thy shadow, lone and pale.