LAMENT

Here in my garden where the tulips grow

I walk alone;

Dim are my eyes with tears, my feet are slow

My heart is stone;

Though all the lovely earth again for me

New sweetness yields

It matters not,— only the dead I see

On battlefields.

Only the dead I see,— and strangely bright

Their faces shine

As though the God of Glory in the night

Had made them fine.

Place for the victors! Stoop my soul to touch

Their tunics hem,—

‘ Tis those they loved who need tears overmuch

O weep for them!