  “What is this pitiful song ye sing, Shades of the passing hours? What is this beautiful young dead thing, Borne on a bier of flowers?” “This is dead Love who, all night through, Beat at the fast-closed door; Wept his heart out waiting for you, Now he will beat no more! “Here he dwelt for a night and day, Longer he might not wait; Never again will he pass this way, Therefore we sing ‘too late!’” “Ah, but the door of my heart within, Was it not alway wide? Had he not wings to have entered in, Why did he beat outside?” “Once he came, though his eyes were blind, Up to the outer door; The way within was too hard to find, Peace! For he wakes no more.” “Yet ye knew I had waited long, Was I not always true? How could I will sweet Love this wrong— Where do ye bear him to?” “Back to the land where he lives again, Over the westward strand; Over the waves and the cloud domain, Into the rainbow land!” “Then, sweet spirits, do this for grace, Set my heart on his bier; So, when he comes to his resting-place, Love may awake and hear!” |
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