When my poor bones are hearsed in quiet clay, And final sleep hath sealed my wondering eyes, The moon as now will sail through tranquil skies; The soft wind in the meadow-grasses play; And sacred Eve, with half-closed eyelids, dream; And Dawn, with rosy fingers, draw the veils Of silver from her shining face; and gales Sing loudly; and the rain from eaveshoots stream With bubbling music. Seek my soul in these; I am a part of them; and they will keep Perchance the music which I wrought with tears. When the moon shines above the silent trees Your eyes shall see me; and when soft as sleep Come murmurs of the rain, ah, bend your ears!
Printed by Hasell, Watson and Viney, Ld.,
London and Aylesbury.
|
|
