DIRGE

Bury him without a word!

No appeal to death;

Only the call of the bird

And the blind spring's breath.

Nature slays ten, yet the one

Reaches but to a part

Of what's to be done, to be sung.

Keep we a proud heart!

Let us not glose her waste

With lies and dreams;

Fawn on her wanton haste,

Say it but seems.

Comrades, with faces unstirred,

Scorning grief's dole,

Though with him, with him lies interred

Our heart and soul,

Bury him without a word!

No appeal to death;

Only the call of the bird

And the blind spring's breath.