In this pleasant beechen shade Where the wild-rose blossoms red, Lieth one who, being dead, Is neither matron, man, nor maid. But once he wore the form of God, And walked the earth with meaner things: Death snapt him. See! above him springs The very grass whereon he trod! Let the world swing to and fro, The slant rain fall, the wind blow strong: Time cannot do him any wrong While he is wrapped and cradled so! Ah, much he suffered in his day: He knelt with Virtue, kissed with Sin - Wild Passion's child, and Sorrow's twin, A meteor that had lost its way! He walked with goblins, ghouls, and things Unsightly, - terrors and despairs; And ever in the starry airs A dismal raven flapped its wings! He died. Six people bore his pall; And three were sorry, three were not: They buried him, and then forgot His very grave - the lot of all! But strains of music here and there, Weird children whom nobody owns, Are blown across the fragrant zones Forever in the midnight air! |