An End.
- Love, strong as death, is dead.
Come, let us make his bed
- Among the dying flowers:
- A green turf at his head;
And a stone at his feet,
Whereon we may sit
- In the quiet evening hours.
- He was born in the spring,
And died before the harvesting.
- On the last warm summer day
He left us;—he would not stay
For autumn twilight cold and grey
- Sit we by his grave and sing
- He is gone away.
- To few chords, and sad, and low,
- Sing we so.
- Be our eyes fixed on the grass,
Shadow-veiled, as the years pass,
While we think of all that was
- In the long ago.
Next
Contents
Last modified 10/13/95