Compensation

I shall not grieve that you are dead.

I sing to you when the stars hang low;

And though I sang till dawn were red,

You still must hear, you could not go.

You are contented, being dead-

You who were used to wander far.

Now I plant flowers at your head,

And steal out nightly where you are.

Ah, once you wandered far and long.

And left me waiting hopeless here.

Though I sent you my breaking heart in a song,

You were too far-you could not hear.

Now it is I could go oversea,

And though I stayed till years were sped,

You would lie peaceful, waiting me.

I shall not grieve that you are dead.