The Grief

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.