  Only a little, O Father, only to rest Or ever the night comes and the eternal sleep, Only to rest a little, a little to weep In the dead love's pitiful arms, on the dead love's breast, A little to loosen the frozen fountains, to free Rivers of blood and tears that should slacken the pulse Of this pitiless heart, and appease these pangs that convulse Body and soul; oh, out of Eternity, A moment to whisper, only a moment to tell My dead, my dead, what words are so helpless to say— The dreams unuttered, the prayers no passion could pray, And then—the eternal sleep or the pains of hell, I could welcome them, Father, gladly as ever a child Laying his head on the pillow might turn to his rest And remember in dreams, as the hand of the mother is prest On his hair, how the Pitiful blessed him of old and smiled. |
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