 | Ephemeron |  |
Hush the murmur unavailing,
Breathed from too perturbed a breast—
Like a wayward infant's wailing,
When it needs must go to rest.
Breathed from too perturbed a breast—
Like a wayward infant's wailing,
When it needs must go to rest.
11
Would mere living on restore thee
Hopes, that once were ever nigh?
Think of those who died before thee,
Think of those who yet shall die.
Hopes, that once were ever nigh?
Think of those who died before thee,
Think of those who yet shall die.
Some there are thou canst remember,
That might whisper words of power—
In the silence of thy chamber,
At the thoughtful midnight hour.
That might whisper words of power—
In the silence of thy chamber,
At the thoughtful midnight hour.
Souls sublimed from sense and hating,
Even in this terrene degree—
Once—how nobly—animating
Dust and ashes! Can it be
Thou in some far world art waiting,
Thou that once wast all to me?
Even in this terrene degree—
Once—how nobly—animating
Dust and ashes! Can it be
Thou in some far world art waiting,
Thou that once wast all to me?
| Ephemeron | |