AT THE GRAVE OF HEINE

South-heart of song

In winter drest,

Death mends thy wrong;

That is life's best.

Bird, who didst sing

From a bare bough,

Call, and what Spring

Will answer now!

And haste with her

Bud-legacy,—

O, not to share,

To take of thee!

Thy night, slow, dark,

Yet song-lit shone,

Till who did hark

Missed not the moon;

When Morning found

Thy cold, pierced breast,

‘ Twas she who moaned,

To thy thorn pressed.

Here lies the thorn-wound of the dawn

Through whose high morn the bird sings on.