 | The book of the East |  |
196
[This book of dirges, if it]
This book of dirges, if it
True to the hue of grief in me,
To what I am, my son, for thee,
True to the hue of grief in me,
To what I am, my son, for thee,
Will be an endless stretch of plain,
Swept by the dreary autumn rain,
And winds that sob, like souls in pain!
Swept by the dreary autumn rain,
And winds that sob, like souls in pain!
No light, a blind sky overhead,
And everywhere a sense of dread:
For such my heart is,—broken, dead!
And everywhere a sense of dread:
For such my heart is,—broken, dead!
| The book of the East | |