 | Lays of France |  |
And, lo—once, when the night was sore,
And the world, for a faint space, bore
The bitter nearness of its dead
Unwontedly, and every pore
Of the chill graves seemed free to shed
The white and ghastly dews long bred
In lone laborious agonies
Of those on whom the death-sleep lies
Uneasily,—she said or sang,
Mourning one last while, words that rang
With their full farewell in the ear
Of those her listening lovers,—clear
With poignant doom of anguish, straight
Awakening them to fight with fate
For ever.
And the world, for a faint space, bore
The bitter nearness of its dead
Unwontedly, and every pore
Of the chill graves seemed free to shed
The white and ghastly dews long bred
In lone laborious agonies
Of those on whom the death-sleep lies
Uneasily,—she said or sang,
Mourning one last while, words that rang
116
Of those her listening lovers,—clear
With poignant doom of anguish, straight
Awakening them to fight with fate
For ever.
| Lays of France | |