VI

A shrill chill wind blew out of the West

As a young child wails for a Mother's breast,

It broke the swell and whitened each crest

And moaned “I come with a strange behest;

The dead are happier. They are at rest

Alone, alone, alone,

Each under a graven stone,

Where the poppies are red

In the homes of the dead

And their scarlet petals spill

And the seabirds scream

As they wheel and gleam

And the seawinds whistle shrill.

The dead are happy, for they are free

They have said farewell to misery,

Alone

Each under a stone;

But the hearts which mourn for a faithless friend

Can never, never, never mend,

And so they break for friendship's sake

Alone, alone, alone.”