O hard endeavor, to blend in with these Dark shadings of the past a darker grief Or blur with stranger woes a wound so chief, Though the great world turn slow with agonies. What though the forest windflowers fell and died And Gertrude sleeps at Gulielma's side? They have their tears, nor turn to us their eyes: But we pursue our dead with groans and cries And bitter reclamations to the term Of undiscerning darkness and the worm; Then sit in silence down and darkly dwell Through the slow years on all we loved, and tell Each tone, each look of love, each syllable, With lips that work, with eyes that overwell. |