 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
DIRGE.
I
O woods that o'er the waters breatheA sigh that grows from morn till night;
O waters with your voice like death,
And yet consoling in your might;
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As when a river draws a leaf,
From silken court and citied swarm
To your cold homes of peace in grief.
II
In boyhood's pride I trod the shoreWhile slowly sank a crimson sun
Revealed at moments, hid once more
By rolling mountains gold or dun:
But now I haunt its marge when day
Hath laid his fulgent sceptre by,
And tremble over waters grey
Long windows of a hueless sky.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |