A DIRGE

A bell tolls on in my heart

As though in my ears a knell

Had ceased for awhile to swell,

But the sense of it would not part

From the spirit that bears its part

In the chime of the soundless bell.

Ah dear dead singer of sorrow,

The burden is now not thine

That grief bade sound for a sign

Through the songs of the night whose morrow

Has risen, and I may not borrow

A beam from its radiant shrine.

The burden has dropped from thee

That grief on thy life bound fast;

The winter is over and past

Whose end thou wast fain to see.

Shall sorrow not comfort me

That is thine no longer — at last?

Good day, good night, and good morrow,

Men living and mourning say.

For thee we could only pray

That night of the day might borrow

Such comfort as dreams lend sorrow:

Death gives thee at last good day.