 | Songs of A Worker |  |
ELEGY.
I carry in my soul the loss of her,
A grief past words and tears; when these are o'er,
Speechless I can but send you to some shore
Lone desolate, to sit there and confer
With the immense sea weeping evermore,
To know the inward weeping of my soul,
A flood no calms can soothe, no tides control.
A grief past words and tears; when these are o'er,
Speechless I can but send you to some shore
Lone desolate, to sit there and confer
With the immense sea weeping evermore,
To know the inward weeping of my soul,
A flood no calms can soothe, no tides control.
Go forth, too, in the silence of the night,
When nothing moves beneath the dismal blue,
And, if a mighty sadness lapses through
The pulseless wakeful pauses, while the light
Of moon and stars wastes down in splendid dew,
A moment you may know a thought akin
To the great sadness of my soul within.
When nothing moves beneath the dismal blue,
And, if a mighty sadness lapses through
Of moon and stars wastes down in splendid dew,
A moment you may know a thought akin
To the great sadness of my soul within.
My sorrow goes abroad over the fields,
Darkening the meanings of each leaf and flower;
Or if you linger in the desolate bower
Of some waste rose-garden that no more yields
The summer fragrance, you may feel the power
Of my lone endless grievings, ere you start
And brush the mood of autumn from your heart.
Darkening the meanings of each leaf and flower;
Or if you linger in the desolate bower
Of some waste rose-garden that no more yields
The summer fragrance, you may feel the power
Of my lone endless grievings, ere you start
And brush the mood of autumn from your heart.
Perchance some fading face of long ago
Limned by a sombre master, in such wise
May set you musing, with unearthly eyes
Of infinite appeal, that you may know,
Through its pale oval, passion-worn with sighs,
A haunting long regret of buried years
Like to the woe my living spirit bears.
Limned by a sombre master, in such wise
May set you musing, with unearthly eyes
Of infinite appeal, that you may know,
Through its pale oval, passion-worn with sighs,
A haunting long regret of buried years
Like to the woe my living spirit bears.
Or when, though I am dead and this untold,
You listen where a hundred hearts are bound
In one and lifted on a thin sweet sound
Of music, like a strenuous thread of gold,
Oh, think of me! I have been there and found
My life-long thought a moment all contained
In the inspired string Ernst's finger strained.
You listen where a hundred hearts are bound
In one and lifted on a thin sweet sound
Of music, like a strenuous thread of gold,
Oh, think of me! I have been there and found
My life-long thought a moment all contained
In the inspired string Ernst's finger strained.
| Songs of A Worker | |