Dirge (Andante)

Not light of sun

Not fires of morn

Nor evening's hues

Nor dirge forlorn.

No birds singing in the dews

While young lambs to pasture run

You are gone and only sleep

Cruel sleep, not peaceful rest

Conquers you, as chill grey seas

Shoulder surf upon their breast

You no longer walk these leas

Uncaressed by clouds that weep

None of these, but lasting death,

Sad forgetfulness are yours

Not the grape upon the vine

Nor the surf upon far shores

Nor the shelter of the pine

Nor flowers gay, nor lover's breath.