Idyls and Songs by Francis Turner Palgrave: 1848-1854 |
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XXXI. | XXXI.
REDBREAST'S DIRGE.
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Idyls and Songs | ||
79
XXXI. REDBREAST'S DIRGE.
FROM ‘THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.’
Rest, little ones, rest 'neath the leaves that we spread.
So tender—so pure: are ye sleeping, or dead?
Almost the thin leaves seem to stir in your breath,
As tho' sleep had taken the likeness of death.
So tender—so pure: are ye sleeping, or dead?
Almost the thin leaves seem to stir in your breath,
As tho' sleep had taken the likeness of death.
Rest, bright-hair'd one, rest 'neath the leaves that we spread.
One little arm stretch'd 'neath thy Sister's fair head:
One hand lock'd in hers, in assurance that she
Is e'en in her death undivided from thee.
One little arm stretch'd 'neath thy Sister's fair head:
One hand lock'd in hers, in assurance that she
Is e'en in her death undivided from thee.
Rest, tender and fair, 'neath the leaves that we spread.
Lie like a fresh snow-wreath that spring clouds have shed.
Thy gentle limbs numb'd in the chill rustling air:
Thy tender feet thorn-pierced, and blue-vein'd, and bare.
Lie like a fresh snow-wreath that spring clouds have shed.
Thy gentle limbs numb'd in the chill rustling air:
Thy tender feet thorn-pierced, and blue-vein'd, and bare.
Rest, little ones, rest 'neath the leaves that we spread.
Rest, lips press'd on lips: are ye sleeping, or dead?
Ye smile, as in dreaming our dirge ye could hear:—
Ye wept on your death-bed:—ye smile on your bier.
Rest, lips press'd on lips: are ye sleeping, or dead?
Ye smile, as in dreaming our dirge ye could hear:—
Ye wept on your death-bed:—ye smile on your bier.
Idyls and Songs | ||