The Grief

Thomas Hill McNeal

I saw a mountain lying as though dead,
And six great stars were candles at its head,
And at its foot a forest drew a wreath-
An offering the gods had tossed to death.

"And I alone of all am here," I said,
"To sit the night out by the lonely dead."

Then like a flute, beneath a sleeping hill,
Sounded the wailing of a whip-poor-will;
"T am the mountain's widow," sang the bird-
And hills and hollows echoed every word.